


New Slang

by TheodoreAurore



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, Slow Burn, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 44,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29322867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheodoreAurore/pseuds/TheodoreAurore
Summary: In which best friends Stiles and Lydia get thrown into the wonderful world of werewolves.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 50
Kudos: 99





	1. Oh, Inverted World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia and Stiles run into something scary in the woods. Stiles wonders if he’s now eligible for the X-Men. Lydia experiences love at first sight. Stiles gets a blast from the past. Lydia and Stiles follow a lead and return to the woods, scary somethings be damned. Stiles gets DonoWalled and spends the night in a haunted house while all his friends live it up at a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I love fics that have Stiles and Lydia as the main duo instead of Scott and Stiles. This fic is my take on that idea, with a ton of additional twists. Tags will be updated as the story progresses. Steter is the main pairing, but it's a slow burn. It kickstarts a bit in the next chapter (I think). I truly have no idea how long this fic is going to be. I'm just having a good time.
> 
> Check out the [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7iRJeoNSETWKaShAhkvc1p) to get the full experience.

She jots dutiful notes, her script elegant as always, on a nearly-full notebook page. She pauses her writing as she flips a page in the book, rereading and absorbing, before continuing once again. Over her speakers, music from The Shins softly plays. Its beachy bass guitar melodies are reminiscent of 60s pop bands; something new from something old. The rest of the house is comfortably silent—her mother is out having dinner with a few of her fellow adult friends, and God knows when she’ll be back. 

The book she’s reading is _The Metamorphosis_ by Franz Kafka. She’s read it once before, but has no qualms when it comes to reading it again. It’s best to be prepared for the new semester, she knows. Currently, she’s on the last few pages, and she’s rather torn on her interpretation. Her notes are not helping her, either. In fact, they’re just giving her more ideas on _what it all means_. She thinks it might be a commentary on how overworking oneself can lead to a permanent burnout, but she also knows that the familial focus in the story is too strong for that to be the only attributed theme. 

With a light sigh, she closes her notebook and lets her mechanical pencil roll away. She’ll never truly understand the nuance behind the book unless she reads it in its original language. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know German, and isn’t really planning on learning it either. Glancing at her clock, she notices the hour; it’s definitely time for a shower and bed. As she’s returning the paperback to its spot in her bookshelf, the doorbell rings loud and clear throughout the house.

She dares to look at the clock again, only to confirm that, yes, it’s rather late. Who in the hell would be at her front door at—?

When the doorbell rings another six times in quick succession, each ring cutting off the other in a high pitch metronome, her question is answered.

With a grumble and a roll of her eyes, she pauses her music and leaves the sanctuary of her room to face her dastardly friend. The doorbell continues to ring as she hurries down the stairs, her ponytail bouncing with each step, and the annoying noise doesn’t stop until she opens the front door.

“What do you _want_ , Stiles?” Lydia Martin hisses. “It’s a school night, and some of us are _trying_ to get work done.”

Stiles Stilinski’s grin dampens. “Sorry, you weren’t answering your phone—” Yes, she always mutes it when she studies. “—wait. Did they assign something over break?” Stiles shakes his head with a wave of dismissal, strands of his long crew cut bouncing with his movement. “No, don’t answer that, I’ll figure it out later. Just, look, I know it’s late, but you gotta hear this.”

“No, I do _not_ ,” Lydia protests, but her heart is only partially in it. Stiles never pulls stunts like this without some reasoning, and his constant curiosity has worn off on her over the years. 

“ _Aww_ , it’s okay to tell the truth, Lyds. You should try it sometime.” Case in point: he knows her too well. “Anyway, so I saw my dad leave twenty minutes ago. Dispatch called—they're bringing in every officer from the Beacon department, and even state police.”

Lydia purses her lips slightly in thought and glances over Stiles’ shoulder at his reveal. Across from the Martin house is the Stilinski’s. And, yes, despite the darkness and the distance due to their large front yards, she can clearly see that Sheriff Stilinski’s car is not in the driveway. Just as her mother’s car isn’t in _their_ driveway. Lydia’s gaze flicks back to Stiles with a thoughtful look.

“Come in,” she orders, opening the door further to let Stiles in. She leads him to the parlor, not that he doesn’t know where it is, and sits down in one of the armchairs. “Okay. Continue.” 

Stiles, who remains standing, is practically vibrating with anxious energy as he picks up where he left off. “Dispatch said they got a report from two joggers—they found a body in the woods.” 

Lydia lifts a brow at the reveal. “Human?”

“No, a leprechaun,” Stiles snarks with a roll of his eyes. “I wouldn’t waste your time like that, of course it’s human.”

Lydia wants to counter that, well, yes, Stiles _would_ waste her time like that. He does it all the time. But she lets the comment slide as she continues with her questioning. “Well, I assume they didn’t die from natural causes, then.” 

“ _Obviously_ ,” Stiles deadpans. “Well, I mean, it’s obvious considering the _other_ little fact I haven’t mentioned yet.” 

“You said they’re bringing in everyone for this. But, they’d only call in that many people if they were still looking for something.” Or _someone_.

“And that’s the best part,” Stiles says with a devious grin. “They’re looking for the _other half_ of the body.”

“Stiles—“

“We’re going.”

“— _no_.”

The two teens are still in the silence: a stand off in the form of an unspoken staring contest. Stiles tilts his head, insisting. Lydia remains impassive as a disapproving authority figure. Despite Stiles’ honey-hazel gaze being full of an insatiable drive to know, it’s unable to beat her honed stare of intimidation. Stiles blinks and looks away with a huff, gesturing with his hands wildly. 

“Come on, Lydia, please,” Stiles says as he pulls out the puppy-dog eyes instead. Lydia remains silent. “Pretty please? Pretty please with all the cherries on top?” 

“Why do you even need me?” Lydia eventually bites back, flipping a palm upwards in a questioning gesture.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I’d be crazy to run around the preserve by myself at this hour. Who knows what monsters are lurking there. Or, or _worse_ , creeps and criminals.”

“You’re already crazy.”

“Duly noted.”

“Why can’t you ask your little lunch buddy? Harley?”

“Harley is not my lunch buddy, she’s my _friend_. I’ll have you know that we Skyped over break.” Lydia hums incredulously, but Stiles ignores her. “And besides, there’s not enough time—she lives on the other side of town. You know, in the complete opposite direction of the preserve?”

“And you have a car.”

“And I don’t have that kind of patience! The body could be found by then!” Stiles urges.

Lydia rolls her eyes as she lets go of the topic. “I hope you realize that the only _creep_ and _criminal_ out there is going to be you, for trying to find some poor person’s missing body while the police have no doubt shut down the trails.” 

Stiles’ face scrunches up before he shakes his head. “No, no, I’m a concerned citizen—”

“You’re an utter dumbass—”

“—that simply wants answers to some truly horrifying questions—”

“—that actively seeks trouble—”

“—because I won’t be able to sleep until I figure out this mystery!”

“—and will _definitely_ be grounded by the end of this night. Actually, you won't even be grounded: you'll be behind bars since you’re an adult now. This isn’t something you can get away with anymore! We’re not baby-faced freshmen that can pull the ‘I didn’t know any better’ card!” 

“But, come _on_! Half of a body!” Stiles insists, uncaring to the potential consequences.

“And you have half of a brain!”

Both of them fall silent again. While Lydia would never snitch on Stiles (oh no, definitely not, it’s far more entertaining to see things blow up in his face), she also knows that encouraging his spur of the moment adventures is almost _always_ a surefire way to get in trouble. She reminds herself of the Incident in Fifth Grade, and the Incident in Sixth Grade, and the Incident in Seventh Grade as some of the many reasons as to why she should not indulge in Stiles. She shudders at the memories. 

Yes, he’s her best friend—something of an annoying little brother and a bad influence big brother at the same time—but that doesn’t mean she has to do _everything_ with him. Especially the things that can only end badly. And this? Oh, Lydia can see it now.

“Think about it,” she urges. “You could get caught by the cops.”

“I think I know enough about the police to avoid them,” Stiles instantly counters.

“Let me finish! You could get caught by the cops. Or, you could get caught by the killer.”

Stiles’ face flickers through an art gallery’s amount of expressions before settling on a sort of anticipation. “Or I _catch_ the killer. Oh, I just gotta grab my bat, or my stick, they’d never see me coming—”

Lydia sighs as she lets her head fall into her hands for a moment. Inhale, exhale, _composed_. She can handle this. Lydia returns her gaze to Stiles. 

“Fine. Go.”

“Think about it—wait, what?” Stiles frowns, or more accurately, _pouts_. “No, you’re coming with me.”

“No, if you’re going, you’re going by yourself.” 

“What?! _Nooo_ , come on, that’s not fun and you know it! I know you wanna go, just, you can even stay in the car!”

Lydia raises a single eyebrow at the offer. “So I’m a sitting duck while you go play detective.”

“Detective, _psh_ , no. I’m more like, search and rescue. Remember, Lydia: I’m crazy, not delusional.”

“The first step to fixing a problem is admitting you have one,” Lydia remarks dryly. “Congratulations on your insanity.”

“So you’re coming?”

“No!”

* * *

Okay. So, maybe she’s worried that Stiles could get hurt. He isn’t exactly the most athletic, or coordinated, or… well. _Anything_. Maybe she has a little, tiny soft spot for her neighbor of seven (give or take) years. Maybe she knows she can keep him out of serious trouble. After all, Stiles is the only person who can actually keep up with her studies. It’d be a serious shame if he gets locked up or hospitalized. 

So, here Lydia Martin is, in her jeans and hiking boots, leading Stiles through the woods. _That_ was her ultimatum: she gets the flashlight and she gets to lead. If she sees something even remotely shifty, they are turning around and heading back to the Jeep. Stiles may be God-awful at planning, but he made up for it with spirit and tenacity. Lydia, on the other hand…

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” she says in a hushed tone.

“The crazy is contagious,” Stiles responds from behind her.

“My mom will kill me if she finds out,” Lydia continues as the reality continues to sink in.

“Well, so will my dad and Mel. At least we’re in this together.”

“I should be at home, in my room, in my bed. I should be dreaming of a bug-man and whether or not I’m supposed to feel sorry for him.”

“Are you talking about the Kafka reading Harris has planned for us?” Stiles asks with a funny uptick in his voice.

Lydia pauses before she responds. “I feel like I don’t understand it,” she quietly admits.

“I think it’s supposed to be… uninterpretable. Is that a word? Uninterpretable.”

“It’s a word,” Lydia confirms as they continue their uphill trek.

“ _Uninterpretable_ ,” he repeats, almost like he’s testing the word in his mouth. “Maybe that’s not the word I meant. I think, like most works of fiction, it’s like… it has multiple meanings. And none of them are wrong? Maybe not all of them are right, but like, they’re not _wrong_. It’s just how you read it.”

Lydia considers his input. She knows, logically, that he’s correct, but she still can’t feel as if there’s a certain, clear message she’s supposed to take away from _The Metamorphosis_. 

“You read it, right?” Lydia asks, and Stiles hums as a confirming response. “What did you take away?”

“Jeez, school isn’t supposed to start until tomorrow.”

“I’m humoring you with all of this—” Lydia waves her free hand around, referring to the woods around them. “—the least you can do is humor me.” 

“Okay, Ms. Martin.” Lydia rolls her eyes, even though Stiles can’t see it. “I think it’s about, uh, dissonance, and like, identity. Like, okay, hear me out: if Gregor just… accepted he was a bug, he would’ve lived, right? He would’ve just scurried away, and it would’ve been whatever. But he didn’t. He kept his human brain like a dumbass. He didn’t adapt, and his family left him behind.”

“So, you think Gregor should’ve lived as a bug? Discarded his humanity?” Lydia asks, completely incredulous. She doesn’t exactly see the sense in Stiles’ interpretation just yet.

“No? Yes? I don’t know,” Stiles sighs as he steps on a stick. “It’s absurd. The whole story is absurd. I mean, I could also see how the story was about like, social exclusion. Isolation and all that lovely stuff. He changed, so his family didn’t want him anymore. He couldn’t be who he used to be, so they…”

“Moved on.”

“I was gonna say _abandoned him_ , or _left him to starve_ , but yeah.”

They settle into a slightly uneasy silence as they finally crest the hill. Lydia’s pace undoubtedly slows their progress, but she rather enjoys hearing Stiles’ thoughts. It usually takes a little bit of pushing and prodding to reach his intellectual side, but once she finds it, it’s always a treat. It’s one of the main reasons they’re friends (or, she should say, _still_ friends).

Lydia pauses as she sees the floodlights in the distance, flicks off her flashlight, and pushes Stiles back slightly.

“What—”

Lydia shushes him before breathlessly whispering, “There’s a crime scene ahead. I’m such an idiot, _why_ did I even come out here—we’re leaving.”

“No! No no no, not after we’ve gotten so far,” Stiles says in a hushed panic. “Lyds, come on, peer pressure, give me the flashlight.”

“That is a definite _no_.”

“ _Okay_. Fuck it,” Stiles says, and before Lydia can react, he’s taken the lead.

Lydia’s face twists into an exasperated expression before she eventually follows Stiles, crouching low as she tries to catch up with him. He’s circling the crime scene, and when she’s finally in reach, Lydia reaches out to grab Stiles’ hoodie. The sound of a zipper being pulled up stops her short, halting Stiles in his tracks too. The two glance down to the crime scene, only to see two bare feet, momentarily visible, as they’re zipped into a body bag. A pair of officers lift the body bag moments later, carrying it off to—what Lydia assumes is—the medical examiner’s van. 

Lydia grabs Stiles’ hoodie and pulls him back. “Look, they found the other half,” she hisses into his ear. “We’re done! Mystery solved. We’re going home.” 

“No, if that’s the other half, they would’ve called off the search,” Stiles whispers back as he nods his head in the direction of a pair of searching officers. “They’re still looking. Come on, you can take the lead again.” 

“Stiles, no! This is insane!” she hisses. 

“And fun! You’re the one always bitching about how boring this town is. Is this boring?” Stiles asks in a hushed tone before his expression turns joking, and he lowers his voice to quote, “ _Are you not entertained?_ ” 

“Shut up you—you annoying little _gnat_. If we’re doing this, you follow me and stay _quiet_.”

“Of course, your royal majesty,” Stiles responds with a little bow of his head, motioning for Lydia to take the lead again. With yet another roll of her eyes, Lydia acquiesces. 

They continue their trek, with Lydia carefully guiding them away from the police and deeper into the dark of the woods. She doesn’t dare turn on the flashlight again, so their pace slows even more. Stiles’ impatience radiates off of him in waves, and he steps on the heel of her shoes for the third time. Lydia nearly turns around to snap at him, when suddenly—

She sticks an arm out, and Stiles runs into it. Both are beyond still as she listens to the sounds of snuffling noses and idle conversation. She can’t see them, but she can imagine it clearly: closing in on them is a search party with cadaver dogs. If the dogs don’t find them, the officers surely will. 

“Hide!” she urges in a whisper. 

Stiles shows no hesitation as he near-silently bolts in one direction. Twigs snap and leaves crunch underneath her steps as she runs the other way. Despite the darkness, Lydia’s light footing is able to keep her from tripping and falling—she’s infinitely glad she decided to change into her hiking boots. Lydia’s heart thrums in her ears, and she’s sure the search party is going to show up and arrest her any second. The dogs begin barking in the distance, and she begins to panic. Spotting a tree big enough to hide behind, she crouches down and covers her mouth with a hand. Despite knowing that closing her eyes will do nothing to keep her hidden, she shuts her eyelids anyway. 

Time crawls to a standstill in the many minutes she spends against the trunk.

Eventually, as the sound of the dogs grows faint, she opens her eyes to the darkness once again. Lydia shakily removes her hand from her mouth, and she sighs in near relief. Standing, she peers around the tree and looks out into the woods. Silence envelops her. Then—

“Oh thank fuck—”

Lydia lets out a short scream as Stiles practically materializes out of the darkness. He frantically shushes her as Lydia claps her hand over her mouth yet again. 

“Jesus, it’s just me!” Stiles whispers. “Okay, we definitely need to leave.”

“You’re only realizing that _now_?!” Lydia hisses back after dropping her hand to her side again.

“No, like, we really need to leave,” Stiles responds in an oddly serious, and slightly a pained, voice. “I—I got, I found the body. The other half.”

Lydia’s breath catches as she quickly looks over Stiles. She still doesn’t dare turn on the flashlight, but with her eyes already adjusted to the low light, she can see the mud that dirties Stiles’ hands and stray bits of pine needles that are still caught on his red hoodie. There’s a pinch in between his brows that hadn’t been present all night. With the evidence taken in, Lydia returns to Stiles’ revelation. 

“You _found_ it?” Lydia asks, her hushed tone full of doubt. 

“Yeah—yeah I did, and, and we gotta go. Like, right now. Actually, like, five seconds ago, but that’s okay ‘cause I’m pretty sure we can make up for it if we sprint—”

“Did the cops see you?”

“No—no,” Stiles responds, and he glances over his shoulder before dropping his tone to a nearly inaudible whisper. “ _Something else_ did.” Looking back at Lydia, he seems to snap back into reality. “Time to go.” 

Before Lydia has a moment to protest, Stiles grabs her free arm and drags her into a sprint, further away from the direction Stiles came from. She keeps quiet as they dodge tree branches and jump over exposed roots. Their breaths and steps feel incredibly loud in the permeating silence around them. She knows that Stiles is leading them back to where they parked the Jeep, but she still can’t help but feel as if…

Lydia dares a glance over her shoulder, and in that echoing darkness, a distant pair of red eyes stare back. And then, the _howl_.

The fear it instills has a physical effect. Its noise reverberates through her bones and into her skull, making her vision momentarily blurry. It's so close, so close and so far, and all she can think about is how any second now, it’s going to catch her. The wolf—because what _else_ could it be?—is going to catch her and _break_ her.

Time resumes as she returns her gaze to Stiles, and moments later, they’re bursting out of the tree line. Sprinting across the asphalt, Stiles lets go of her arm to fish his keys from his pocket. The Jeep lights up as it's unlocked and both of them hurry to open their respective doors. An intense moment of panic washes over Lydia as she slams the passenger door shut and searches for the lock button. Even when Stiles locks all the doors, turns on the shuddering car, and pulls so quickly out of the parking lot that she nearly gets whiplash, she still doesn’t feel safe.

They’re ten over the speed limit, roaring down the two-lane highway, and sitting fearfully in the near darkness of the car. Lydia’s still catching her breath, and she looks over at Stiles shadowed form to see that he’s in the same situation. His grip is beyond tight on the steering wheel—Lydia can relate, her hands are digging into her thighs. Stiles’ eyes are flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds.

Despite her terror, she follows his gaze, turning around to see out the rear window of the car.

There’s nothing, save the road washed red by the taillights of the Jeep. Somehow, the fact that she can’t see anything isn’t comforting. Lydia knows that some monsters know how to hide. Some monsters, unlike Gregor of _The Metamorphosis_ , adapt. 

She turns forward again, and asks in a nervously high tone, unsure of herself, “What was that?” 

“You saw it, too?” Stiles asks, voice full of relief. Lydia nods, and hopes that Stiles sees her non-verbal response. “Okay. Yeah. Glad to know I’m not _actually_ crazy.” Neither of them laugh. “I think we just met the killer.”

“Oh my God,” Lydia whispers. “Oh my _God_.”

“I don’t think God’s listening.”

“Can I at least leave a damn voicemail?” she snipes back. “Oh my God. I am _never_ doing anything with you ever again!” Lydia finally snaps, vitality returning to her voice. “I can’t believe I let you _drag_ me out—” Lydia cuts herself off, closes her eyes, inhales, and exhales. Her grip loosens on her thighs as she composes herself and opens her eyes again. Her voice is filled with fear and venom when she says, “Stiles Stilinski, I hate you.”

“Okay, harsh,” Stiles responds, but his voice is still thin. They’re now pushing twenty over the speed limit.  
  
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Lydia starts, “When we get back, I’m going to take a shower, set my alarm, and go to bed. You’re going to do the same, and we’re driving to school together tomorrow.”

“My car or yours?” Stiles cuts in.

“Mine. We’re going to have a normal day of school, and we’re not going to talk about this until you’re done with your tryouts.” 

“I don’t think I wanna benchwarm for another year.”

Lydia almost flinches at his response. Stiles and lacrosse have always gone hand in hand, even if he never saw field time. He’s been seen as the team’s benchwarmer mascot since freshman year, the perfect example of ‘this is what happens when a nerd tries to be a jock.’ It’s all rather cute, if a little bit sad. 

“What about your lacrosse friend?” Lydia finds herself asking. Stiles takes a moment to think and Lydia fills in the silence, “That one kid with the curly hair?”

“I wouldn’t really call Isaac’s hair _curly_. And I also wouldn’t really call us _friends_ either,” Stiles replies, some of his personality returning to his voice. “I mean, like, he’ll sit there and listen to me ramble, but he never really talks.”

“Jackson expects me to be at tryouts,” Lydia reminds him.

“And Jackson’s an ass,” Stiles retorts. “Besides, I'll still have cross-country on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Lydia goes quiet. Her relationship with Jackson has been rocky, recently. She doesn’t like thinking about it too deeply, of what it’ll mean for her when she eventually ends up single.

Stiles seems to sense her unhappiness when he asks, “We could both ditch? I, uh, I wanna do some research when I get the time tomorrow. We could make a study session out of it. I mean, it’d run the risk of Jackson throwing a temper tantrum once he figures out where we fucked off to—” Lydia huffs at that. “—but, if we hang at my place… y’know. My dad _is_ the Sheriff. I don’t think Jackson wants to face the wrath of my father when he’s missed his Sunday night football. And I’m talking ‘running idiot teenagers off his lawn with a shotgun’ levels of pissed.”

At the mental image of Jackson sprinting away screaming as Sheriff Stilinski chases him with a shotgun, Lydia actually manages a weak laugh. The fear-induced tension in the air slowly dissolves as Stiles eases off of the gas. The tree line recedes as they properly enter the town. A red light on the highway has them coming to a stop. Stiles sighs as Lydia turns to look at him. Under the glow of the red stoplight and hidden by the red of his hoodie sleeve, she almost doesn’t notice it.

“You’re bleeding,” she says, as if that will do anything.

Stiles turns his right arm over, his sleeve shifting up and exposing his wrist. On it, a large bite wound is leaving trails of blood on his arm. It drips onto the steering wheel.

“Oh. Yeah, I am,” Stiles says, his tone once again high and absent. His expression is terrifyingly blank. “Didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You got _bit_.”

Stiles is still transfixed by the bite on his arm as the light changes from red to green. The different colored lighting makes the blood even more obvious. Stiles looks pale, and Lydia feels the same. 

“I think I should drive,” Lydia suddenly says. 

Stiles throws the car into park. “Yeah, I think you should.”

* * *

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t tell your father,” Melissa Delgado directs at Stiles in a serious tone. Then to Lydia: “And one good reason why I shouldn’t tell _your_ mother.”

Lydia feels like shrinking in on herself. Neither of the teens expected to be confronted by Stiles’ stepmom the moment they got out of the car, parked safely in the Stilinski’s three-car garage. According to Stiles: ‘ _Fuck fuck fuck, she told me she had a late shift tonight!_ ’

“I would—” Stiles tries to start in a smarmy tone, but Lydia cuts him off.

“I am _so_ sorry, Ms. Delgado. We just wanted to enjoy a hike on our last day of break and completely lost track of time. I didn’t realize how late it got until the sun set.” She hasn’t always been passable at coming up with lies on the spot, but being friends with Stiles… well. Acquiring certain skill sets has certainly made her life easier. 

“Yeah, exactly,” Stiles picks up with a glance at Lydia, “and then my car wasn’t starting—”

“And Stiles’ _car_ wasn’t starting—”

“And I didn’t know if dad’s Triple-A membership would cover roadside assistance for _my_ car—”

“It took Stiles so long to get it working, I swear, I thought we were going to be stuck in that parking lot all night—”

“And I wasn’t gonna call you ‘cause I thought you had a late shift—and, and I didn’t wanna drag dad out on his day off. You know how much he likes Sunday night football. Hey, speaking of, where is he?” Stiles asks with an innocent smile. 

Melissa looks entirely unconvinced, but she responds anyway. “He was called out.”

“Aw, wow, he must be upset. I’ll definitely make him a nice breakfast tomorrow to make up for that.”

The three of them stand in silence, and Lydia looks between Stiles and his stepmother. She isn’t particularly worried about Stiles, she knows the two of them are on (mostly) good terms, but she is worried about herself. When they pulled into the Stilinski’s driveway, Lydia noticed how the lights were on in the Martin house across the street. She could only hope that her mother hadn’t checked her room, and simply assumed Lydia was already asleep. If Melissa isn’t convinced…

“Alright,” Melissa eventually says. “You—” Melissa points at Stiles. “—shower and bed. Go.” 

Stiles hesitates at his stepmom’s order, especially considering Stiles’ age, but at Lydia’s subtle nod, he exits the garage to head inside. He gives a little salute and a smug smile as he softly closes the door (not completely shut, Lydia notices). Lydia holds back a pout at Stiles’ eavesdropping ways. 

Melissa continues, “Lydia, you’re a good girl, and I trust you. Do I need to worry about what you two were actually up to?” 

The words make Lydia’s heart melt. It almost convinces her to spill completely and tell Melissa the truth; God knows Melissa is much warmer than her own mother. But, Lydia doesn’t want to throw her best friend under the bus so quickly. 

“It was mostly the truth. We weren’t really in the woods for hiking, we were…” Lydia sighs and closes her eyes, playing up the act of embarrassment. “We were reenacting The Blair Witch Project.”

Melissa huffs a little laugh. “The Blair Witch Project?”

Lydia nervously opens one eye, and then the other. “I know. It’s silly, but—”

“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s just not what I was expecting.” Melissa squints her eyes slightly. “Anything else I should know before I let you sneak back home?”

“Um,” Lydia squeaks before the next words all but fall out of her mouth, “Stiles got bit by a wolf.”

“Stiles _what_?”

* * *

The next morning, Stiles looks exhausted as he trudges down his driveway. She knows from the string of texts (16 notifications from one Stiles Stilinski) she woke up to that Melissa had dragged him to the ER to get the bite treated. Lydia turns down the music—more of her usual 60s reminiscent indie-rock—as Stiles slips into the passenger seat of her Prius. She’s beyond glad that her Volkswagen Beetle got totaled last year; now, it’d only remind her of Gregor and his trapped bug form in _The Metamorphosis_.

“Ugh,” Stiles groans as he sinks down into the seat, eyes closed and hugging his backpack. “Don’t say it. I know I look like shit.”

“You always look like shit,” Lydia says with complete nonchalance as she starts the drive to school. She tucks in a flyaway and glances at Stiles.

“I get that you’re still mad at me, but like, ouch?” Stiles responds as he sits up in the seat and glances out the window. He scratches his head, almost in confusion, before continuing, “You’re just hiding your eyebags with makeup.”

“And?” Lydia retorts, checking herself in the rear-view mirror. Her makeup is perfect, as always. There’s no evidence that she was up until the witching hour. 

Stiles lets it go. “Nice cover, by the way. Blair Witch Project. If Mel ever asks you about it again, the story is that we deleted the footage after watching it.”

“I don’t think I’d be that bad of a director,” Lydia protests with a pout.

“I was directing, you were filming with your phone,” Stiles compromises as he begins to tap an unidentifiable rhythm with his fingers on his bag. “That’s why it was a disaster.”

“Why would I _ever_ agree to being stuck behind a camera?” Lydia points out as she flicks on her blinker to turn onto the main road.

“I don’t know, why did you agree to come with me last night?” Stiles counters.

“Peer pressure, apparently,” Lydia responds with a resigned sigh.

“I’m that convincing?” Stiles says with a smile as he turns to look at Lydia.

“You wish you were,” she huffs as the car picks up speed. Then, shifting the conversation: “How’s your wrist?”

“Hurts like a bitch,” Stiles groans as he shoves his sleeve up to show off his bandaged wrist. Lydia glances over for a second and Stiles continues. “There’s zero chance in hell I’m gonna be able to pick up a pencil today.”

“Did… were they able to figure out what bit you?”

At that, Stiles' attention perks up again. “Okay, so you’re not gonna believe me, ‘cause even the doctors that looked at it were wary as hell, but get this: they think it’s a wolf bite.”

“California—”

“—doesn’t have wolves,” Stiles finishes in agreement. “Not for the last sixty years, I know. But… you heard it too, right?”

Lydia swallows, trying not to think of the devil red eyes in the dark of the woods. “The howl.”

Stiles doesn’t respond, and glancing over at him, she sees some sort of _intent_ in his golden—

Lydia flicks her gaze to the road, making sure she’s still driving straight, and then looks at Stiles again.

—his _light brown_ eyes. She shudders slightly as she looks forward again. Maybe she needs a coffee. 

“We have homeroom together, right?” Lydia asks as she tries to forget last night.

“Yep,” Stiles confirms, popping the _p_. “Curtis?” Lydia nods, and Stiles begins to list his class schedule. “Homeroom with Curtis, English with Curtis—”

“Danny’s in our homeroom, too,” Lydia jumps in.

“Really? Dude, homeroom is gonna be good this semester,” Stiles says with a content smile, then picking up where he left off. “I’ve got, uhh, AP biology in second, forgot what teacher.”

“I’m in the same bio class.”

“Of course you are. Then is, uhh, chemistry with… Harris?”

“We’ll sit together there, too. I’m pretty sure Jackson and Danny are going to be there as well, but I am _not_ doing a lab with Jackson, even if it isn’t an AP course. And I’d be an idiot to make _you_ pair up with Jackson.”

“Jesus, Lydia, did you copy my whole schedule again?” Stiles asks with a laugh.

“Just the morning periods. I may have asked my mother to pull some strings,” Lydia sweetly replies with a charming smile of her own. “I want the second smartest person in school to be my lab partner, after all.”

“Aww, see? You do love me.”

“I love to hate you, and I love the grades you get when you’re taking your Adderall. So stay on the meds, and I’ll keep my above perfect GPA and be off to college before you know it.”

“All I heard from that is that you love me,” Stiles responds, but she can hear the wisps of melancholy in his tone. She’s just as sad as he is that they won’t walk across the graduation stage together, but there’s nothing Stiles (or anybody, for that matter) can do to change the past. No use crying over things that can’t be fixed.

Lydia shakes her head, smile still present on her face. “Who do you have next?” 

“Why do I have the feeling you already know the answer to that question?” Stiles sighs through his grin. “Well, after lunch, I’ve got… I think it’s AP world history? And then econ with Finstock, P.E. after that, and then back to homeroom.”

“I have AP US history and Algebra 2, and then Art History, so I’m sorry to say you’re on your own until homeroom.” 

“Oh joy. Any clubs this semester?”

“Definitely not. Oh, and don’t worry about writing today, I’ll share my notes with you until your wrist heals up.”

“Thanks Lyds.”

* * *

She notices that something is wrong with Stiles about halfway through their first period.

Okay, _well_. That’s not necessarily fair to her past self from an hour ago. Hour-ago-Lydia definitely noticed that something was a little bit off, but she’d simply attributed it to Stiles’ very long, very hectic night. Hell, she currently feels the same.

But now. Now, when Stiles is so incredibly still that it frightens her, she knows that something is very _deeply_ wrong. Even Danny shoots her a questioning glance, as if she has the answer to Stiles’ mental state. No, thank you; if she can’t talk to Stiles, she can’t figure out what’s wrong. So, she lets herself get absorbed by _The Metamorphosis_ once again. She starts her third read of it with Stiles’ comments on it from last night scurrying around her head like little Gregor-reminiscent roaches.

Maybe it is about abandonment. Maybe it is about accepting change. She still doesn’t know, just how she still doesn’t know what she’s going to do about Jackson. Jackson, who had practically torn her away from her gaggle of friends (see: Danny and Stiles, with Harley hanging at the fringes of their group by association of Stiles) to possessively hold her waist and pull her into a deep kiss. It was a display, she knows that. She doesn’t mind displays, in fact, she loves being the center of attention. But she likes the spotlight with the added context of respect; that wasn’t respect. That was ownership. Objectification. Lydia’s stomach rolls at the thought of it, rather than flutters how she knows it should.

She really shouldn’t dwell on those thoughts, though. Thinking about silly little Stiles is always much easier. 

Seeing how Mr. Curtis is a prick, she can’t even get away with having a hushed conversation with Stiles about his odd behavior. It isn’t until biology does she finally have a chance to figure him out.

“Did you take too much Adderall today?” is Lydia's way of asking _are you okay?_

Stiles takes a moment to break out of his daze, before leaning in close and whispering, “I think I have superpowers.”

She blinks. Then blinks again and answers in a whisper of her own, “If this is a joke, I’m waiting for the punchline.”

“No joke. I legitimately think I have superpowers.” Stiles pulls back slightly, but his voice is still slightly quiet. “Like, I think that wolf, whatever bit me? I think it gave me something. Not like rabies, I have my vaccines, like, y’know. _Powers_.” He motions some finger guns. “Pew pew!”

Lydia stares at him, dumbfounded.

Okay.

Stiles is definitely _not_ okay. And she has no clue what to say.

“Don’t give me that look,” Stiles says with a pout. “Look, I can prove it. Umm. Hold on. I don’t know—I don’t actually know how to prove it. Wait!” Stiles quickly stands, the stool making an ugly screeching sound on the floor. “I think we still got a minute until the bell. Okay, I’m gonna leave the room, you’re gonna stay right there. Once I’m out, I want you to say something. Like, whisper it.”

“Okay…?”

“Just trust me!” Stiles calls over his shoulder as he strides out of the classroom. Half of the students are staring at the door, the other half at Lydia. 

She’s going to kill him.

Underneath her breath and with closed eyes, she mutters, “Stiles, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you and your dad won’t find the body until graduation.”

Ten seconds later, Stiles enters the classroom again and exaggeratedly takes a sullen seat next to Lydia.

“You really want me gone that bad? My dad’ll be heartbroken. Come on, Lydia. The death sentence is harsh, even for you.” Sarcasm drips from his tone.

Lydia is visibly taken aback. She looks at Stiles, who has a smug grin forming on his stupid face, and then she begins looking around their desk. The bell rings, the shrill noise only adding to Lydia’s shock. It echoes within her head and gets stuck in her throat. 

“You bugged the room,” Lydia hisses as the teacher begins commanding everyone’s attention.

“Nope,” Stiles whispers back. “Super-hearing.” He tugs at his earlobes, and Lydia almost feels dizzy with something that feels like _excitement_.

* * *

Needless to say, biology (and chemistry that followed) are extremely interesting. 

Once the teachers stop lecturing, Lydia and Stiles complete their work at a breakneck pace and spend the rest of the morning periods toying with Stiles’ new ability. From his enhanced eavesdropping, they learn that: their biology teacher (who steps out of the classroom to receive a phone call) has a younger girlfriend that gets clingy when her man doesn’t respond to her texts; a girl named Penelope from biology has a crush on Danny even though he’s 100% gay; Jackson (oddly) isn’t looking forward to tryouts; Epileptic Erica is subtly manipulating her asthmatic (it’s shockingly scary to hear Stiles explain how the poor dude’s lungs struggle to work at full capacity) chemistry lab partner to do all of the work for her.

Stiles and Lydia have never engaged in so much gossip before. They’re accumulating all bits of information that they don’t even know what to _do_ with. In fact, it’s already started to become a problem. Stiles, curious as he is, can’t help but listen in. Lydia, who always longs for control, enjoys having a look into what people say when they believe they have privacy. They’re currently discussing the ethics, in hushed tones of their own (oh, the irony), of Stiles’ powers as they walk down the halls on their way to lunch, as well as a new development: enhanced smell.

That’s when Lydia sees _her_.

She’s not exactly sure how to describe it, seeing her for the first time. She’s new, she has to be new because Lydia would _definitely_ remember a face like that. Strong jawline, sweeping dark hair, lips pulled into a pout—and sweet dark chocolate eyes. She’s soft and hard, adorably paradoxical. The way she curls in on herself speaks of shyness, but there’s something else there…

This girl isn’t like most of the kids at Beacon Hills High. And the jacket—! Oh, the _style_ of it. The girl has taste. Lydia struts up to her; whatever Stiles is saying, she doesn’t hear it.

“That jacket is…” Lydia starts as she catches the girl attention, unintentionally cornering her at her locker, “...absolutely _killer_. Where’d you get it?”

The girl hesitates for a moment, but quickly gains her footing with a practiced smile. “My mom was a buyer for a boutique back in San Francisco.” 

Lydia’s own smile brightens as she tilts her head and points curiously at the girl. “Amazing. And your name is?”

“Allison.”

“ _Allison_. I’m Lydia. You—”

A hand snakes around Lydia’s waist, and she tilts up in confusion to see Jackson. A moment later, he leans in, as Lydia leans back, and plants a kiss on her lips. He pulls back with a smile and looks at Allison. Idly, Lydia notices how Stiles is a few lockers down, talking to Harley and Danny as they wait for Lydia to finish up.

“And this is Jackson,” Lydia mutters with a hesitant smile before finding her voice again. “I was going to say that you should join us for lunch.”

“Um, I’d love to,” Allison responds with a smile.

“Perfect, let’s go.”

Lydia sneaks her way out of Jackson’s grasp as she begins to lead the way to the cafeteria. Jackson still hovers closely at her right side, but he isn’t suffocating her. Allison follows, tentatively, to Lydia’s left. She can hear the idle conversation of Stiles, Harley, and Danny behind her, and wonders if Stiles already spilled the secret of his freaky super-senses to them. Somehow, Lydia doubts it. While the three of them are close, they aren’t _best_ friends. That’s Lydia’s spot.

But, to be honest, she sometimes cringes when she admits it. Stiles is… Stiles is great when she has him one-on-one. He’s funny and dynamic and full of personality. At school, or anywhere else? He sometimes falls apart. Lydia can relate, except with herself, it’s the exact opposite. She’s lovely and beautifully dull when she’s out in public. By herself? She can finally let those guards down and show her true interests, her true self. In that way, her and Stiles fit as best friends. 

For example: she’s hosting a party this Friday and Stiles has been a _godsend_ with help for the planning. Minus the whole ‘let’s go find a dead body!’ thing, of course. Every year since they’d become friends, he’s been her helping hand behind the scenes. Lydia knows that the public perception of the two of them being friends is that Stiles does all of Lydia’s homework for her, and writes her essays, and is basically her personal little nerd-on-a-leash (even if Stiles sometimes has lapses in his intelligence that make Lydia beyond confused; she blames the ADHD). Neither of them particularly mind. It makes it easier for Lydia to keep her persona up and it makes it easier for Stiles to _not be bothered_. After all, nobody messes with Stiles Stilinski without messing with Lydia Martin. 

Oh, speaking of the party, though:

“So, Allison,” Lydia says as she glances over to the new girl. “On Friday night, I’m hosting a party. I’d love for you to come.”

Jackson manages to curl his arm around Lydia's waist again; she doesn’t have it in herself to pull away. 

“Oh, I can’t,” Allison says, almost on reflex. “It’s family night on Friday. Thanks for asking.” Her tone is sweetly melancholic. 

“You sure?” Jackson asks before Lydia has a chance to. “I mean, everyone’s going after the scrimmage.”

“You mean, like, football?” Oh, the naïve little thing.

“Football?” Jackson huffs as his grip around Lydia’s waist tightens. “Football’s a joke around here, are you kidding me? The sport here’s lacrosse. We’ve won state championship for the past three years.”

Lydia knows how important it is that the team wins again, this year. It’s Jackson’s senior year, after all. If they win, he’ll be undefeated in his high school career. It’s certainly a record that’d look pretty to the recruiters. 

“All thanks to a certain team captain,” Lydia says under her breath as they enter the cafeteria.

She ends up barely touching her lunch.

* * *

“Stiles?” Lydia asks for the third time. He’s been completely absorbed by his laptop, furiously tapping away, for the past few hours. Lydia has already finished her own studies, and every time she asks Stiles ‘ _what are you doing?_ ’ he only responds with ‘ _gimme a minute_ ’ as he prints another twenty pieces of paper.

Well, one minute was sixty minutes ago. She’s been watching Khan Academy videos on topics that hold her idle interest for the past hour. Besides the quiet instructional content and Stiles’ wicked fast typing, the only noise comes from the chirping crickets in the darkness outside. 

In all honesty, Lydia probably would have gone home earlier, but she’s avoiding Jackson right now. The slew of text messages she’d received after tryouts, tryouts she _hadn’t_ attended, are… well. She doesn’t really know how to describe it.

**[ Jackson Whittemore ]**

_Didn’t see you at tryouts. You okay?_   
_Hey_   
_Lydia_   
_You seemed off today, talk to me_   
_Where are you_   
_Stiles wasn’t there either, did you really ditch with him?_   
_Please pick up your phone_   
_Did I do something wrong?_   
_Are you cheating on me?_

She knows that Jackson is referring to Stiles even if it isn’t explicitly stated. The cheating jab is low, considering how Stiles once had a crush on Lydia. That was a lifetime ago and Jackson knows it. Stiles’ love for her is platonic, as is her love for him. 

**[ Jackson Whittemore ]**

**_Stiles wasn’t feeling well so I drove him home. I’ll call you later._ **

_Stiles seemed fine earlier_

The messages are eating at her. Moths to wool, the guilt consumes her whole. She isn’t technically lying, since Stiles (apparently) almost lost it in sixth period P.E. (something about a _deflated basketball_ and _claws_. She hasn’t been able to pry a clear story out of him yet). 

“Okay,” Stiles finally—finally!—says. “I’ve been reading.”

Lydia lets her phone drop to her chest as she stares at the ceiling, “Yeah, that’s _obvious_.”

“What I’ve found is crazy,” Stiles says, unfazed to her comment. “Do you remember Derek Hale?” 

Lydia hums in thought. “He’s only a few years older than us, right?” she ends up asking, sitting up to look over Stiles, who’s shoving different papers around. She’s unsure where Stiles is going with this train of thought.

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms with a wave of a paper filled hand. “And his entire family burned to death in a fire like, half a decade ago. I remember my dad getting the call…” Stiles goes still at the memory before shaking his head; Lydia doesn’t know if it’s because of Stiles’ personal associations with houses burning down, or because of the gravity of just how many people died in the Hale fire. “ _Jesus_. I poured over the articles for months. Anyway, their family used to own the preserve before the land got turned over to the county. Big house out in the middle of the woods.” Stiles picks up a pen and begins idly tapping it on the arm of his chair. “It’s kinda close to where I found the, uh, the other half of the body.”

At the mention of the body, Lydia furrows her brows. “Did the police ever find it?”

“Freakily enough, no. I definitely didn’t make it up, though. _Definitely_.” Stiles shudders and his idle pen-tapping stops as he obviously recalls whatever he saw. “Is it possible for corpses to look guilty in death? She looked so… so _resigned_.”

“What does this have to do with the Hales?” Lydia asks, trying to push Stiles back on track. 

“Oh, the Hales, yeah. Guess who’s back in town.”

With what Stiles mentioned earlier, Lydia hazards a guess, “...Derek Hale.”

“Got pulled over for a speeding ticket, get this: three nights ago.”

Lydia knows better than to ask how Stiles even obtains these details in the first place. Plausible deniability is always her best defense, when push comes to shove.

“How close is the Hale house to where you found the body?” Lydia questions, finally seeing what Stiles is trying to get at.

“Close enough for it to grab my attention,” Stiles confirms.

“Are you saying that Derek Hale is a murderer?”

“I’m saying he might be,” Stiles says with a shrug. “But it’s kinda suspicious, right?” He points at her with the pen “Dead body shows up near his family’s old property during the same week he returns to BH?”

Lydia inhales through her nose and thins her lips. It doesn’t feel right, and she doesn’t know how to explain it to Stiles.

“He’s probably staying in a hotel, Stiles. You know, with running water and walls that aren’t burned down.”

“Or he’s a freaky murderer-mutilator living in a haunted house,” Stiles counters, but quickly waves his hands in dismissal and flicks the pen onto his desk. “We should definitely swing by that place to double check. Well, I’m going to the preserve either way to see if the body’s still there, but—”

“You’ve dragged me this far in,” Lydia says with a resigned smile and a small sigh. “I might as well see it through to the end and make sure you don’t die in the process. I’ll come with you.” 

“Yes!” Stiles exclaims as he jumps out of his chair with a fist pump. “I mean, like, yeah. Nice of you to, uh, agree. ‘Cause I _definitely_ don’t wanna drive out there alone.” He settles back into his chair, and some tension seems to finally seep out of his form. Stiles picks up a piece of paper, what looks like an article on the Hales, and waves it around. “This is all in the realm of normalcy, though.”

“If murder is normal, I don’t want to know what isn’t.”

“The abnormal part,” Stiles continues, “is that I was bit by a wolf in the woods.” Stiles lifts up his wrist as proof, except… it’s clear. There’s no bite, no scar, no _nothing_. “Oh yeah, forgot that it healed. Don’t pay attention to that just yet. So, I was bit by a wolf with—okay. You might not believe me, _but_. Lydia Camille-Grace Martin, I swear on your GPA that it had these glowing red eyes that were straight out of a bad horror movie.”

Lydia nods, tone serious, “I believe you.”

“You—you do?”

“I… I saw it. I thought it…” She shakes her head at the fearful memory of her heart thudding and her feet pounding and the screaming thoughts of _it’s going to catch me_. “I saw it.”

“Oh. Okay. I might not need all of _this_ then,” Stiles casually remarks as he shoves a stack of papers onto the floor. They flutter down like falling snow. Then: “I’m a werewolf.”

Lydia looks back up at Stiles. Takes a moment. Takes a long moment.

“Look, you’re a woman of science. Just, just think about it. Super-senses, super-healing—" He holds up his wrist again as proof. "—Hell, just throw something at me. I’m pretty sure that’d prove—”

Her phone suddenly vibrates in her hand. Jackson’s trying to call her again. She denies the call and chucks the phone at Stiles’ face.

 _Shockingly_ , with nearly inhuman reflexes (especially inhuman for Stiles), he catches it.

Even more shockingly, claws emerge from Stiles’ hands and threaten to—

“Shit!” Stiles shouts as he drops the phone before the claws can sink into the phone. It bounces harmlessly onto the carpet floor. “And _that’s_ what happened in gym. Had to bench myself in a game of basketball, Lydia, _P.E. basketball_. If that isn’t a sign that I shouldn’t play ball sports, I don’t know what is.”

“Stiles,” Lydia says, nearly breathless. “I think it’s more of a sign that you’re a werewolf.”

“That, too.”

They’re silent for a moment before Lydia flops back down on the bed with soft laughter bubbling in her chest. “Is this really our life?”

“ _Nooo_ , don’t go hysterical on me. Come on, let’s practice some breathing techniques,” Stiles says in a friendly-mocking tone. “As my shrink always reminds me, four seconds in, seven second hold—”

“I know the 4-7-8 technique, Stiles!” Lydia snaps, but remains laying on her back as she lets the idea settle. “Werewolves are affected by the Moon,” she notes.

“ _Aroo_ ,” Stiles mock-howls in lieu of confirmation. “Full Moons on Friday, already checked. I’ll be dog-gone mad by then.” Stiles snorts. “Get it? Dog-gone.” Lydia only gives him a pointed look out of the corner of her eyes. “Tough crowd. Don’t worry, I’ve got another fifty where that came from.”

“My party’s on Friday,” Lydia remembers as the shock rolls through her.

“I know. I don’t think we should worry, though. My years of therapy have taught me how to meditate. You could say I’m… _aware_ wolf.”

Lydia closes her eyes, and in that moment, decides to employ the 4-7-8 breathing technique before she either starts A. laughing hysterical, B. yelling at Stiles for getting himself in this situation in the first place, C. yelling at Stiles for getting her involved by association, D. running away to the safety and normalcy of her own home, or E. all of the goddamned above. 

“Aware. Like, I’m aware. And wolf,” Stiles explains. “Because were—you know, you’re making this _really_ difficult. You should really try and be more _paws_ -itive about this whole thing.” He pauses, and drops back into reality for a moment. “Okay, but I really don’t think I should go to the party. I’m not sure what the Moon will do to me. I mean, like, assuming I actually am a werewolf and not just Wolverine or something.”

Lydia opens her eyes and sits up to look at Stiles in a nonchalant manner as she asks, “But _howl_ will I survive the party without you?”

Stiles snickers at her counter-pun, seemingly relieved at Lydia’s calm. She isn’t calm, not really, she just knows freaking out won’t help them. Stiles opens his mouth to respond, probably another pun, but is interrupted by the gentle _ding-dong_ of the doorbell. Stiles looks at his bedroom door and Lydia follows his gaze. Then, back to the phone on the floor.

“Shit,” Lydia mutters. “Jackson’s been—ugh. He’s been blowing up my phone all evening.”

“I know the code to my dad’s gun case,” Stiles offers. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I exercised my second amendment rights.”

“Stiles, I very much think your father would mind if you threatened District Attorney Whittemore’s son at gunpoint,” Lydia says as she stands up, quickly swoops up her phone from the floor, and exits Stiles’ room

“Oh, it wouldn’t be at gunpoint!” Stiles calls out as he stands to follow Lydia down the hallway, through the family room, and up the stairs—the house is built into a hillside, and the main floor and living area is upstairs, while Stiles’ room is downstairs. “I’d just hold it, y’know? Safety on, I _promise_.”

“Nope,” Lydia continues, “I’m solving this diplomatically. Remember: you’re feeling unwell, I drove you home early. We’ve been studying quietly since then.” She stops short, before they reach the top of the stairs, and reaches up to flatten Stiles’ hair. The doorbell rings again, in the meantime. 

As they reach the main floor, Stiles walks over to a hall mirror to look at himself, then furrows his brows a bit, squints his eyes slightly, and adds a little down-tug to his lips. “Wow, my sad puppy look is _legit_ now. Like, I’m literally a puppy—”

“Shut _up_.”

They walk across the foyer to the double front doors. Lydia’s and Stiles’ socked feet are quiet on the hardwood floor. Subtly glancing through the side window panes that accent the front doors…

...Lydia notices that it’s _not_ Jackson. The person has a different build, smaller? Different posture, too. Drawn in. She slows her pace and idles slightly as Stiles takes the lead, obviously seeing the same as Lydia. 

“Do you know who it is?” she asks quietly as Stiles hesitates to open the door.

“No. Definitely not a salesperson,” Stiles responds as he ruffles his hair up again, plasters on a smile with a glance at Lydia, and swings open the front door; Lydia hovers behind him. “Hi, uh, can I help you?”

The guy at the front door has a conflicted look on his face. His curly, mop hairstyle nearly covers his eyebrows. If it weren’t for the eyebags that linger underneath his dark brown eyes, Lydia would almost say that he has more of a puppy-dog look than Stiles. He seems to be the same age as Lydia and Stiles, or at least around it, but she doesn’t recall seeing him anywhere. Not that she knows every student in school (God, far from it) but she’s usually pretty decent with faces. 

“Uh,” he starts with. Lydia feels a pang of pity for him, with his layered shirts and unzipped rain jacket. Stiles can pull off the messy look, yes, but that’s because Stiles knows color coordination. His plaids match his graphic tees; Lydia’s made sure of that, over the years. But this sad little guy in front of her? 

“Uh?” Stiles copies.

“Uhhh?” Lydia whispers under her breath.

The stranger-guy shakes his head. “Is Melissa McCall home?” he asks. Lydia feels confused at the name. Melissa’s last name has been _Delgado_ as long as Lydia has known her. Even when she and the Sheriff got married, she decided to keep the last name. 

“I don’t know,” Stiles responds defensively. “Who’s asking?”

“Scott McCall.”

The name means nothing to Lydia. 

But it must mean _something_ to Stiles, because his voice hitches, and then cracks when he asks in delayed recognition and pained disbelief, “ _Scott_?”

* * *

Lydia drives herself home. It’s not much of a drive, not really. She doesn’t even bother to put her heels back on when she pulls out of the Stilinski driveway and turns into her own, her car crawling up the long driveway. 

And that’s when she sees Jackson’s Porsche parked in front by the garage. Lydia suppresses a groan as she skirts around it, clicks the garage opener, and pulls in. Grabbing her bag and her shoes, she drags herself out of the car, into the house, and up to her room. Opening the door reveals Jackson sitting on the edge of her bed. She hangs her bag up on its hook and tosses her heels in the direction of her closet. She’s too exhausted to care.

“You could’ve answered your phone,” Jackson mutters. Hot guilt rushes to her face. “Is it something I did? Something I _said_?”

“Jackson. It’s late,” Lydia says as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 

Jackson stands up and takes a slow step towards her, finding eye contact. “Do you even love me?”

She’s used to biting her tongue, swallowing the words that threaten to crawl out. She’s used to burying this six feet deep.

But something about seeing Stiles reunite with his long lost childhood best friend, someone he called his _brother_ —something inside Lydia feels beyond tired. It’s been the longest first day back ever and she just wants to go to bed, and Jackson, Jackson who doesn’t even—

“Do _you_?” Lydia questions right back. "Or do you just love the idea of us?" It’s not venomous, not like Jackson’s words. It’s quiet and calm and unnerving as the grave. 

Jackson flinches slightly. Then blinks rapidly, eyes sliding away from her cold gaze. “I think we should take a break.”

“We just took a break,” Lydia gently, sadly reminds him. There was a reason why winter break had been so nice, for once. 

“A permanent break.”

Lydia nods while Jackson walks past her and leaves her room without another word. He quietly shuts the door behind him. Lydia stands stiller than death, face heated with embarrassment and shame, until she hears his Porsche start up and drive away.

Only then, does she grab the nearest pillow, shove it in her face, and scream.

* * *

“Yeah, I want to graduate from Beacon Hills High,” Scott explains, as if that answers _any_ of Stiles’ burning questions. 

The two of them are currently hanging in the living room—Stiles, sitting upside down on the couch; Scott, sitting on the edge of the recliner with his backpack at his feet. Scott’s backpack looks more like a military tactical backpack than a school bag, and seems to be filled to the brim. 

As for the _other_ details. Scott smells of basic shampoo (probably showered in the locker rooms after practice) and AXE deodorant. Stiles’ over-sensitive nose wrinkles slightly at that. He’s more of an Old Spice guy himself and he should _probably_ introduce Scott to something less offensive if they’re going to be hanging out. There’s some gum and (what smells like) open snacks in Scott’s backpack—maybe nuts? Or trail mix? There’s definitely a Clif bar in there somewhere, Stiles can tell that much. The most upsetting aspect of everything, though, is hearing Scott’s lungs. It almost pains Stiles to hear them work so poorly. Stiles believes, without a doubt, that Scott still carries an inhaler in his pocket at all times. 

_Wait_. He _recognizes_ the sound of those lungs. 

“Are you partners with Erica in chemistry?” 

“Yeah,” Scott answers tentatively. 

“Cool, cool,” Stiles says, more at himself than at Scott. Then, changing the subject: “So, what, you and your dad moved back?” 

“Oh, no, it’s just me.” 

“Oh.” Stiles’ expression pinches. “Where are you staying, then?” 

Scott scratches his chin as an uneasy smile crosses his face. “Oh, you know.” He swallows. “Around. I’ve got a place, uh, near downtown.”

Stiles nods with a parted mouth, before snapping it shut and frowning with a small shrug. Scott’s situation sounds cool as hell, living on his own, doing whatever he wants. It’s something Stiles is looking forward to. Not that he doesn’t like being at home, no, he _loves_ being at home. He simply, like every other young adult, wants independence and the opportunity to start his life. It certainly doesn't help that the earliest he could graduate is next semester, and that'd be pushing it.

“So you graduate this spring?” Stiles assumes.

“No,” Scott replies with hesitation. “I’m… I’m only a junior.” Stiles knows that he and Scott used to be in the same grade; except, Stiles was held back after a particularly rough year. That means… Scott was held back at some point, too. It’s clear that he feels some sort of shame over it. 

“Dude,” Stiles huffs, “don’t worry about that. I’m a junior too. Had to repeat fourth grade.” He waves his hands about. “I know, _fourth grade_. It was a hell of a year.”

“Oh, uh.” Scott tries another smile, but it’s still far too nervous to be considered anything genuine. “Yeah.”

Okay.

So, Stiles isn’t going poke and prod just yet, but he knows something’s up with Scott. He doesn’t know the full details of the McCall-Delgado divorce, but he knows it was messy. Like, really fucking messy and sketchy as _hell_. Rafael McCall had hired NorCal’s best custody lawyer and Melissa had barely been able to afford a lawyer in the first place. The records of what happened in family court are still sealed to this date. That doesn’t mean Stiles has nothing on the situation, though. With that said, here’s what Stiles knows to be facts:

  1. Melissa Delgado and Rafael McCall got divorced.  

    * _All of that happened the same year Stiles’ mom died, so excuse him for not paying closer attention. He was, like, nine. Well, Scott was also nine, but Stiles was spending more time in the hospital after school than at Scott’s house._
  2. Rafael McCall received full custody of Scott McCall and promptly moved to Washington, DC for a promotion, taking Scott with him.  

    * _Stiles cried when he heard the news and begged his dad to let him sleepover at Scott’s before he left. He cried harder when his dad told him that Scott had left that morning. His heated tears turned bitter ice on his cheeks. School became a mindless drone, after that. What was the point of doing well without Scott at his side, without his mother in his life? He couldn’t pay attention in class, let alone get a passing grade._
  3. Melissa Delgado was denied visitation rights.  

    * _Stiles was standing just outside of the kitchen, listening in as his father tried to console a sobbing Melissa over the phone (to little avail). His dad left the house minutes later, still on the phone. And Stiles was left alone, again, in the empty house of ghosts. His memories are tainted by the constant coldness he felt that year. The only thing that warmed him was the flicker of matches and the spark of lighters: the growing, growing, growing flame. Sometimes, in the dark of the night, the fire still calls to him._



Stiles shakes his head at the memories. He’s still in therapy for a reason. His cognitive-behavioral therapy sessions of imaginal desensitization and covert sensitization have _mostly_ rewired his brain over the years. The thought process of therapy leads Stiles’ overactive brain down the path of doctors, and hospitals, and Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, and Mel—Stiles’ eyes snap open. He quickly flips around to sit on the couch properly, and he nearly sees spots as the blood rushes out of his head. 

“I gotta text Mel,” Stiles says as he stands to retrieve his phone; he’d left it in his room. “Or call and leave a voicemail.” Stiles walks around the couch to head to the staircase, before stopping in his tracks and turning to look back at Scott. “Follow me, we can chill in my room.”

Scott obliges as he picks up his backpack and trails behind Stiles. When Stiles glances behind him, he notices how Scott is taking in every little detail of the house like a kid in a candy store. His mouth is slightly agape at every turn, and Stiles is slightly confused as to why. The house isn’t anything special. Yeah, there’s some nice antique pieces all around the house that he convinced his dad to drag out of storage when they moved, and the house has a nice, homey vibe to it with it’s light and medium toned wood floors and accents, and it’s got high ceilings and large windows with a view of the sprawling woods, but…

To Stiles, it’s just home. He’s lived here since he was, like, eleven, and it’s normal. To Scott? It’s clearly a different situation. Scott slows slightly as they reach the bottom of the stairs, and looks out a window to the sloped backyard. A pathway cuts through the grass, leading to the pool below. 

“Nice place,” Scott mentions as he picks up pace again. 

With the office, master suite, kitchen, dining, living, and laundry rooms all upstairs, it leaves Stiles with nearly the entire first floor to himself. The family room at the bottom of the stairs is less of a family room and more of Stiles’ gaming/TV binging zone. While his dad and Mel occupy the living room or host small dinner parties with their (very few) friends upstairs, Stiles can slink away to his own TV downstairs and do whatever the hell he wants. His couch is much cozier, the carpet softer than the hardwood, and the beanbag in the corner is the best spot in the house to collapse into after a long day of school. 

Cutting across the family room and down a short hallway leads to three doorways (two closed, one open): one leads to Stiles’ bedroom and attached bathroom, one leads to the always unoccupied guest room and its bathroom, and one leads to the unused home gym with equipment that’s covered with a thick layer of dust. Stiles would’ve converted it to his own little office years ago, but his room is more than big enough to accommodate his research-spiraling ways. So, the gym continues to waste away, despite Stiles’ attempts to beg his father to _please work out more, it’s good for you_. 

Stiles leads Scott through the open doorway, and into his room. Stiles makes a beeline for his phone, on his desk, while Scott idles in the middle of the room. 

“You can set your stuff anywhere, I don’t really care,” Stiles says with a wave of his hand as he unlocks his phone and finds his starred contacts. “Or,” Stiles says with a tilt of his head, “you could set your stuff down in the guest bedroom? I’m sure, like, I mean I’m more than sure that my dad wouldn’t mind you spending the night, and Mel, like, _definitely_ wouldn’t mind. So.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Scott replies with an eager nod and a bright look in his eyes. It’s the most energized he’s looked all night. “Where is it?”

“Right next to this one, just down the hall a bit,” Stiles replies, pointing his thumb in the direction as his other hand clicks the call button. Scott exits the room and the dial tone _rings rings rings_.

“This is Melissa Delgado. I’m not at the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you, thanks!” says the voicemail that Stiles has completely memorized by this point. The beep sounds and Stiles opens his mouth to leave a voicemail. 

And he realizes he has no words.

What do you even say to a mother that hasn’t seen her son in nearly a decade? 

“Hey Mel,” Stiles says, not bothering to introduce himself since Mel 1. knows his voice and 2. has his number saved. “Um, an old friend is staying over tonight. Actually, the old friend is, uh, your son? Scott. He’s in town, well, he moved back, on his own. Um, I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about so…” Stiles trails off, and the next words come out in a flurry as he fears his voicemail will be cut off, “I’ll just hang up now and see you in the morning, _okay-bye_.”

Stiles hangs up and lets out a tense exhale, then: four second inhale, seven second hold, eight second exhale. Alright. He can handle this.

Scott’s hovering in the doorframe, his moc toe boots and rain jacket finally discarded. Stiles notices how well-loved ( _well-worn_ , Lydia would say, or maybe, _falling apart at the threads_ , or, _distressed fashion_ , on a good day) his clothes are. It’s rather similar to Stiles’ own style, minus the signature plaid. 

“Dude, what are you, a vampire?” Stiles jokes, and then realizes that… the joke may hold more weight than he thought. If werewolves are real…? He continues joking anyways. “Sir Scott McCall, I formally invite you into my room.”

Scott manages a half smile with a duck of his head. “Thanks.”

Stiles pouts slightly. He was hoping that Scott would’ve responded with something along the lines of ‘Of course, Sir Stiles Stilinski’ or continued with the vampire jokes. But, no. Stiles shakes it off.

Scott’s in his room now, but he’s still hovering uncomfortably. Stiles gets that they haven’t seen each other in, well, _forever_ , but it’s like Scott’s entirely forgotten how to socialize. Or maybe, Stiles has just gotten really good at being casual with others? He’s not too sure. 

“Take a seat, man,” Stiles says as he sits in one of his desk chairs, rolling the second one over to Scott. The wheels crunch over the stray papers on the floor, and that’s when Stiles finally remembers: _holy shit_ , he has like, a thousand papers on the floor, on his desk, and pinned onto his bulletin board about motherfucking _werewolves_.

Nervously, Scott moves a few of the papers with his sock-covered feet (warm winter socks that Stiles can appreciate) to make a clear area for the chair. 

“Werewolves?” Scott hesitantly asks as he glances at the papers with a tilted head.

“Yep,” Stiles says, slightly anxious. “ _A topic of idle interest_ , as Lydia would put it.”

Scott looks around the room, at all the other papers. “This looks a bit more than idle.”

“Okay,” Stiles squeaks. “A topic of _diligent_ interest.”

“So, are you and Lydia…?”

“Dating? God no,” Stiles nearly replies with disgust in his tone and his expression twisted. “We’ve been friends since the move.”

Scott mutters an ‘ _ah_ ’ as he nods. “How, uh, how long ago was that?”

“Pretty soon after you left, actually. I was, like, eleven? Around the beginning of 2006. I don’t know if you remember, but I had the biggest crush on her—”

Scott chuckles softly, “I remember. Every recess, it was _Lydia Lydia Lydia_.”

“Yeah,” Stiles responds with a smile. “So then I actually _met_ her, ‘cause we were neighbors, and I was pulled out of school for a semester—long story—and my dad was worried I’d forget how to talk to other kids. Her mom practically forced her into those playdates, I swear.” Scott huffs slightly at that, and Stiles nods with a smile in agreement. “But, yeah, once we started hanging out, I realized I didn’t really _know_ her. I just had this image of her in my head… anyway, my crush kinda faded away, and we’re just friends now. But, like, it’s fine, y’know? I see her more like a sister now.” Stiles furrows his brows and frowns slightly at the thought, then breaks into a smile at the realization. “Dude! We’re _literally_ brothers now!”

“Oh, yeah,” Scott says with a small smile. “How’d that even happen? I mean, I know I’ve been away for a long time, but…”

“No, no man it’s cool, I get it. My dad and Mel got pretty close after… everything,” Stiles says as he lowers his voice slightly. “I mean, I assumed my dad would never move on after my mom died, but it happened. My dad was kinda… there for your mom? When she, uh… y’know.” Stiles nods towards Scott, and Scott solemnly nods. “And then after our house burned down—”

“Is that why you moved?” Scott cuts in.

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms. “Whole thing, _fwoosh_. Bye-bye house.” Stiles doesn’t mention how _he_ was the one who caused the fire in the first place, otherwise they wouldn’t have gotten the insurance money. The only people that know about Stiles’ childhood pyromania are his father, Mel, and his psychiatrist. Probably Lydia, too, but Stiles hasn’t explicitly confirmed it to her (yet). The breadcrumbs are definitely there for her to follow, though. “You won’t catch me complaining, though,” Stiles says with a grin. “This house? This location? The neighbors? _Wayyy_ better.” Stiles shakes his head as he realizes how he’s veering off topic. “We stayed with Mel—she had an apartment, back then—while my dad looked for a new house. They got closer, started dating, and the rest is history,” Stiles finishes with a shrug. He _definitely_ glossed over a ton of gory details (the animosity Stiles held towards Mel at first, the way Mel tiptoed around Stiles and how Stiles hated it, how fast Mel moved in and how Stiles felt like she was trying to replace his late mother), but it’s in the past now.

Scott’s smiling, a little melancholy thing. “I can’t wait to see her.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, choking up a bit at the thought, “I can’t wait for you either.”

“What’ve you been up to?” Scott questions, changing the topic. “Besides moving and hanging out with Lydia.”

Stiles sighs and spins around in his chair once. “Not much? I mean, a lot, but it’s easy to sum up. Um, I decided to quit lacrosse this year. I’m taking some AP courses… let’s see… oh, don’t tell anybody, but Lydia and I kinda found a dead body in the woods yesterday. Well, I found it, but Lydia was also there. Kind of. It’s a long story.”

Scott looks pale, but smiles through his worry as he rhetorically asks, “You haven’t changed, have you?”

“Same ol' Stiles,” he replies with a cheeky grin, thinking of the claws that lurk within his fingers. Stiles has a deep rooted feeling that more change is only on the way.

* * *

Her days pass in a senseless haze, and she’s not exactly sure why. Lydia feels like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, but she’s not sure what the first shoe was in the first place. Only when Stiles flits into her orbit, does she feel some remnant of life. 

That, and Allison.

Allison is something that Lydia wants to take apart, study, and put back together. She feels like her thirteen year old self, dissecting a frog for the first time. Only, she doesn’t want Allison to get hurt in the process. Lydia often has that effect, of making people acknowledge who they are. Something of an intelligence curse, she’s sure.

So, while Stiles plays catch up with the oddly quiet and oddly sad Scott McCall, Lydia takes Allison shopping. And more shopping. And, _hey, there’s another store that’s just too good to pass up, let’s go?_ And, _that gelato shop is famous around town, let's try it._ And, _oh, I’ve heard good things about The Descendants; it’s still in theaters, come on, tag along with me_.

She’s running out of things to do, in all honesty. Allison comes with her, a note of hesitancy every time she accepts. Lydia’s spent more money in the past few days than her mother would like. She doesn’t care. The money she spends is time spent with Allison.

“Hey,” Allison says as they’re making their way back to Lydia’s car after the theaters, “I’m sorry if I’m— _prying_. But, are things okay between you and Jackson?”

Lydia slows her pace, tilting her head slightly and responding, “We broke up.”

Allison ducks her head slightly. “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

Lydia hums, uncaring. “Are you sure you can’t come to my party? Stiles is going to be… indisposed. I’d hate to host it alone.”

“Don’t you have Danny? Or Harley?” Allison asks, warm eyes round and full of confusion.

“Danny isn’t exactly the organized type. Don’t let his computer smarts fool you, he’s a mess. Falls apart if he’s in the spotlight for too long,” Lydia says with a huff. “And Harley’s more Stiles’ friend than mine. I don’t _really_ know her. She just sits at my table and makes Stiles laugh.”

“And Stiles?”

“I said he’s busy?”

“No, I mean.” Allison sighs, almost sadly so. “You two seem pretty close.”

Lydia nearly gags and stops right in her tracks. Allison stops beside her, obviously worried. “Stiles is— _no_. Just, no.”

“What, is he gay?”

“What?! No! I mean, I don’t know, well… no.” Lydia rolls her eyes as she continues to walk again. “He’s probably bi, but what do _I_ know?”

“Um, everything?” Allison responds with a little laugh. Lydia looks over at her with a smile. 

“Only sometimes. But, no. Stiles is… he’s been my neighbor since fourth grade. I can’t even _begin_ to see him in a romantic light.” In fact, she feels sick just thinking about it, but she doesn’t need to mention that.

“Wow,” Allison mutters. “It must be nice to know somebody that long.”

“Oh, trust me,” Lydia continues as they finally reach her car. She unlocks it with a press of her keys. “It’s a blessing and a curse. I wish I didn’t know Stiles as well as I do.” She has enough embarrassing stories of Stiles (and, shockingly, Stiles of her) to last a _lifetime_. “He’s an annoying little thorn in my side at times, but he’s a thorn I love.” 

The two of them get into Lydia’s car, and in the silence of the inert car, Allison asks, “Does that make you a rose?”

Lydia considers it, and wonders what Allison means by it. “I like to think I’m not as delicate as a flower.”

“Some flowers are poisonous. Deadly.”

Lydia looks over at Allison with a sparkle in her eyes. The harsh edges threaten to tear at Allison’s own flowery façade. A flicker of _something_ flashes across Allison’s face, but it’s gone before Lydia can decipher what it is. 

“I’d hate to poison the people I love,” Lydia remarks as she turns on the car. 

The tension falls away like petals in the wind. She connects her phone to the aux cord, and decides to play her personal playlist, rather the one she usually plays around others. The playlist shuffles between The Shins, MGMT, M83, and DEV (she skips one by The Hoosiers, a song added purely due to Stiles’ influence on her music taste). Allison’s gaze is fixed on the outside world. Her phone remains tucked away in her purse; she seems to be in deep thought. 

“I’ll come,” Allison eventually says. Then, clarifying: “To the party. If you’re hosting, I’m sure it’ll be great.”

Lydia doesn’t bother hiding the smile that spreads on her face.

“What about family night?” Lydia asks, remembering Allison’s original excuse.

“I… I might have made that up,” Allison replies with a guilty smile. “I wasn’t exactly sure what you wanted when you first talked to me.”

“And what do you think I want now?” Lydia dares to ask.

“Someone to talk to. You like me, I like you, so why not hang at your party?”

The words taste sweet in the air. “Perfect. I have lots to prep you on for your role as co-hostess, seeing how Stiles can’t come.”

“Co-hostess?”

“We can get started the second we get to my place,” Lydia continues, “I’m sure your parents won’t mind? Or, we could drop by your place, grab your stuff, and make a girl’s night of it.”

“Like.. a sleepover?” Allison hesitantly asks, looking over at Lydia like she’s grown a second head.

“No, we’re going to be conducting satanic rituals.” Allison softly laughs at that, and Lydia can’t help the blush that rises to her cheeks. “I expect you have the candles and the pig's blood?”

Allison mock-gasps. “I thought I was supposed to bring sheep's blood!”

“Oh, what a dilemma!” Lydia jokes back. “Good thing we have all semester to sort out this mess.”

Except, _all semester_ has never felt so terrifyingly short.

* * *

Late Thursday afternoon rolls around with overcast on the radar. Lydia hopes it’ll clear up in time for her party tomorrow evening. Her time spent in the library, waiting for Stiles to be done with cross-country practice, was practically dismal without any natural sunlight streaming in through the windows. 

The low hanging clouds only add a layer of gloom to the winter-barren woods they’re currently driving through. Stiles, at the wheel, is tapping in tune to the drums of some new indie pop song on the radio that Lydia doesn’t know. The road they’re driving on is bumpy in spots and smooth in others. Californian earthquakes haven’t been kind to the asphalt, and Stiles’ car isn’t easy on the potholes. 

Eventually, the single lane road leads them to the Hale house. It’s large, possibly larger than Lydia’s house. That’s saying a lot, considering the price the Martin house would go for if it went on the market. However, it’s a sorrowful shell of what it used to be. Whole sections of the house are exposed to the elements, and nearly every wall is charred tar-black. 

The house tugs at her, tugs at something beneath her heart. It feels like a bird trapped within her ribcage, like a breath she’s holding, like something she wants to _free_. But she can’t. It's like trying to speak a language she doesn't know; like trying to understand a translated work without the context the original language holds. It's _The Metamorphosis_ all over again.

The feeling remains buried as Stiles flicks off the radio, shifts the car into park, and peers out of the front windshield at the remains of the house. A moment later, he’s turning off the ignition and smiling at Lydia.

“Definitely haunted.”

“People died,” Lydia warns. The two of them exit the car, leaves crunching underneath her boots, and the feeling in Lydia’s chest only grows tenfold. It’s more painful than love; it’s deeper than grief.

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles taps his temple. “Read every single report, remember? Eight dead, one comatose. Only ones that walked away unscathed—well, _physically_ —were Derek and—”

“What are you doing here?” a deadpan voice asks, and Stiles (literally) jumps with shock. Lydia looks on, unimpressed, at who she recognizes as, speak of the devil, Derek Hale. A face like that isn’t one she’d forget. “This is private property.”

“Sorry, we didn’t know,” Stiles lies, _terribly_. Ugh. Derek’s looking at Stiles like he could bore a hole through the poor boy’s skull. 

“Actually, we did,” Lydia corrects. Stiles gives her a look that roughly translates to what the fuck?!, but she continues unperturbed. “We were hiking the other day and my friend—" She nods in Stiles' direction. "—ran into a corpse. Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“No?” Lydia echoes.

“No. Now leave.” With that, Derek turns around and walks away. He disappears into the house (the nearly in shambles house where nearly his _entire family died_ , to Lydia’s shock and horror) without another word.

“What the fuck was that, Lydia!” Stiles hisses as he slowly turns to look at Lydia as if she’s the mad one of the two of them.

“I don't think he'll bother us if we stay away from the house,” Lydia remarks with a glance and shrug at the house and its whispering agony. "The land around it belongs to the county, after all," she says with a charming smile and begins to walk in the direction Stiles mentioned the body was in earlier. 

“Dude! Lydia!” Stiles hisses again as he jogs a few steps to catch up with her. “Did you _see_ him?” he asks under his breath, agitated and confused at Lydia's boldness. 

“He’s just a little rough around the edges," Lydia casually observes.

“No! _No_ , like, he had this… thing.” Stiles makes some motions with his hands, an attempt at communication. “This—I don’t know. This _feeling_.” 

“Stiles,” Lydia chastises, “if this is your way of coming out, you’re doing a very poor job. You can just say that you think he’s hot.”

“What?!” Stiles squeaks. “No, that’s—that’s not funny, and, yes, objectively, he’s hot, but that’s—that’s not what I meant.” Stiles goes quiet as they hike deeper into the woods.

Lydia notes the way Stiles doesn’t deny the _other_ insinuation. She mentally files it next to her Allison folder, her Danny folder, her Harley folder, and her Jackson folder. She furrows her brow at the realization. Is… is _that_ the factor drawing them together? Surely, it isn’t. _Surely_. Allison’s sexuality is still an unknown variable—Lydia can’t tell if Allison’s flirtations are truly flirtations at all, or some kind of game that a fledgling psychopath plays with its prey. 

Lydia doesn’t like feeling like prey, just how she doesn’t like being on the preserve. It feels like… _intruding_. 

“I don’t know,” Stiles continues. “It was like an aura. Vibes and shit.”

Lydia puzzles at that. “Have you noticed the Moon affecting you?” she asks.

“Kinda? I don’t know. I feel weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Are you my therapist?”

“Only after school.”

Stiles laughs and kicks a rock. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s a… a calling. It’s like, you know all those feelings you have under your skin? The Moon just brings it closer to the surface. Makes them want to crawl out.”

The words haunt her, as she recalls the feeling in her own ribcage. Stiles continues.

“I can resist it, but it’s… grating. Unnatural. I mean, I don’t mind it? Like, it’s really cool to have these powers, but… it feels like something’s missing. I just don't know _what_.” 

They continue onwards, with Stiles leading them in an unknown direction. The woods are oddly silent around them, as if all the bugs and birds have stopped to hear what Stiles has to say.

“Do you… do you remember the howl?” Stiles asks and Lydia nods. “I… when I heard it—” Stiles swallows, almost uneasily, and then shakes his head. “—I don’t know. Sorry, listen to me, rambling.”

“I asked.”

“Yeah, yeah I guess you did.” Stiles hums a brief tune, a melody from a song she’s heard before but doesn’t have a name for. “You wanna talk about Jackson?” 

“No,” Lydia mutters with conviction.

“...You wanna talk about Allison?”

Lydia flushes at the mention, but her face remains impassive. “What about Allison?”

“She’s cute.”

“Are you interested?” Lydia asks, trying to shift the attention away from herself.

“Nah. Are _you_?” Shit.

“If I was,” Lydia cautiously begins, “what would you say?”

“I’d say _get that_ , Lydia Martin!” Stiles laughs. “Dude, do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to break up with Jackson? I’m, like, one hundred percent in your corner. Come on, Lyds. I don’t care if you’re bi, or a lesbian, or whatever—”

“ _Jackson_ broke up with _me_ ,” she corrects.

Stiles goes slightly quiet; she hadn't told him that yet. “...But you’re not trying to get him back.”

“No,” she realizes. “No, I guess I’m not.”

“I know you don’t wanna hear this, but he really wasn’t good—”

“You’re right, I don’t want to hear it,” Lydia snaps back. “So let’s stay on track and find this body before sunset.” 

Stiles quiets down again, and his steps quicken slightly before he mutters something underneath his breath. Lydia can’t quite make out what he said, what with him being a yard or two ahead of her.

“What?” she asks for clarification. 

“I’m coming out now!” Stiles rushes out with a glance over his shoulder. “I’m, uh, yeah, I’m bi.”

It’s not news, not really. She knew, Danny knew, Harley knew, (hell, Lydia thinks that Mel knew), but it’s taken Stiles years to finally admit it. She takes a few quick steps to catch up, grabs Stiles by his sleeve, and pulls him around. He protests as she pulls him into a hug.

“You’re such a dumbass,” she says in their embrace. She pulls away and holds both of his shoulders, lest he bolt off. With his new wolf-powers, she’s not sure she’d be able to catch him. “Welcome to the club, Stiles Stilinski.”

“Oh,” Stiles mutters with clarity. “ _Oh_. You’re—you’re legit about Allison.” Lydia nods with a knowing smile. “You’re, is she—? Oh my God. Who else? I mean, I know Danny’s gay and Harley’s a lesbian but—oh my _God_. Jackson?” Lydia nods again, her smile turning slightly sad. “So our entire group is…and I was the only one who—? I’m such a dumbass.”

Lydia affectionately pats his cheek twice. “Are we done?” she asks, and Stiles nods. “Alright, let’s find that body—” Stiles’ eyes widen as he notices something over her shoulder. Lydia whips around, her hair flying into Stiles’ face. He spits out a piece that got caught in his mouth as he takes a step backwards. 

“You’re still on private property,” Derek Hale remarks. She’s not sure how long he’s been following them. 

Stiles cuts in, much to Lydia's shock. "Well, it's pretty hard to tell where _your_ property ends and where county land begins, dude."

“And we’re still looking for that body,” Lydia unwaveringly adds as she smooths her hair out.

“I doubt you’ll find it.”

Stiles, bewildered, shoots back, “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?!”

“It means _I think you should leave_ ,” Derek all but growls. Well, judging by Stiles’ reaction, maybe he had growled—

Wait.

Lydia looks between Stiles and Derek, then she looks off into the horizon in thought as she considers the Hale house. Her mouth parts open, slightly, in subtle realization. 

The Hales had been a reclusive family, living out in the preserve. They were rich and many in number, and came from a bloodline that existed in Northern California long before European settlers ever set foot in North America. They were tightly woven, from what Lydia remembers. Some were charismatic, some more rough around the edges, but all had this… _drive_ that was so identifiably Hale. Local legends, some had called them. Now, they’re nothing but ash and…

Lone wolves.

Derek isn’t scary to her. No, he isn’t scary because she can see the deep rooted pain that runs within his veins. She can feel the deaths that haunt him (and, _damn_ , how that feeling haunts her in return). 

Lydia takes another step forward. Then: “Are you the werewolf that bit Stiles?”

“ _Lydia_!” Stiles hisses.

But _Derek_. Derek flinches, actually flinches, and takes an uneasy step backwards. His gaze flickers between Lydia and Stiles, searching for something. 

“I’m not,” Derek finally answers. “But I’m trying to figure out who is.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles mutters. “He’s a werewolf.”

“You’re a werewolf,” Lydia points out to Stiles, “this shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“I know, I know! It’s still just so… freaking _awesome_! I have so many questions—”

“Did you see the Alpha?” Derek asks, tone beyond serious.

“What?” Stiles asks. Both Lydia and Stiles are looking at Derek, waiting.

“The Alpha. Whoever it is, they bit you, and turned you,” Derek explains with as little details as possible. It’s the type of explanation that gets on Lydia’s nerves. 

“Okay,” Lydia starts as fakely sweet as possible, “ _Derek_. I think you and I both know that, seeing how my friend here is a werewolf now, he deserves proper explanations of what’s going on. Because explanations like _that_?” She points a manicured finger at Derek as she takes a step closer. “Are not going to cut it around here. Are we clear?”

Derek is quiet. Then: “The Full Moon is tomorrow.”

“We’re aware,” Lydia responds. 

Derek’s eyes sweep, annoyed, from Lydia to Stiles. “It’s your first. You’ll be affected.”

“As we're _expecting_ ,” Lydia continues with a roll of her eyes. “This is what I was talking about. Stiles did his research already, but _details_ would be appreciated.” 

Derek almost looks offended. “You think you can Google werewolves and find your answers?”

“Well, it—” Stiles starts.

“No,” Lydia cuts him off. “That’s why we’re asking questions.”

Derek inhales, and exhales, still obviously reluctant due to his exhaustion. He truly looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “Where did you find the body.”

He says it… almost as if he doesn’t want to know the answer. He’s resigned. Isn’t that what Stiles had said about the body? How she looked _resigned_? 

Derek Hale seems to live his life as a dead man walking. Lydia hopes she never ends up the same.

Stiles stands up a little bit straighter as he says, “It’s this way.” He nods in the direction they were just traveling. “Maybe a mile away at this point, give or take. I can’t remember the exact spot.”

Derek nods solemnly, and gestures for Stiles to lead the way.

“Wait,” Lydia says before they continue, “numbers.”

She fishes out her phone, unlocks it, and offers it to Derek. He rolls his eyes, but snatches her phone and fills in his contact information. She looks at it, satisfied, and creates a group chat between her, Derek, and Stiles.

And the three of them hike on.

* * *

She’s buried in leaves, layers of decay on her decaying body. Lydia knows, she _knows_ somewhere deep within herself that this girl must’ve been a wolf. Coincidences don’t exist: this woman is dead for a reason. From beneath the film of dirt, her dead eyes stare up into the clouded sky. 

_Towards the Moon?_ , Lydia can’t help but wonder. The Moon calls to wolves, yes, and they answer with their howl, but does the Moon welcome them home in death? Do they run in its light, forever held, forever loved, forever mourned? 

The feeling of death, of pain, of grief is crawling up in her chest again. She swallows to keep it down. 

Stiles was right: she looks resigned. And if she looks resigned, she doesn’t know what to call Derek. 

Lydia looks at the dark hair of the girl, messy and wild. She looks at her strong features, the pallor of her death-kissed skin. She looks at Derek’s features, mirrored, and then looks between the two of them.

Her dawning realization leaves a sickening feeling in her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Lydia says because she’s not sure what else she _can_ say.

Derek shoots her a dark look, but Lydia doesn’t flinch away. Stiles looks between Derek and the girl, then at Lydia, who gives him a nod. Stiles frowns, uneasy and slightly guilty looking. Stiles is intimately familiar with grief; he knows the pain Derek is feeling.

“Go,” Derek mutters. He sounds like he’s holding back tears, choking himself. Lydia feels the same.

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it. Whatever he was going to say remains locked behind his teeth. He sighs and walks away, and Lydia follows.

Walking away from Derek, the silence nearly consumes her whole.

* * *

Stiles is sitting on the bottom step of the staircase in the Martin house. He’s been busy setting up with Lydia (and Allison) all afternoon; she didn’t want to attend the scrimmage, not with how fresh her breakup with Jackson is. The sun is setting, now. He’ll have to leave for the preserve, soon. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he takes it out to view the text from Scott.

**[ Lt. Scotty ]**

_Scrimmage ended. we won_

_**Awesome dude, u get to play?** _

_No_

**_Keep ur head up, bro_ **   
**_Remember to have fun at Lydia’s party tonight, btw_ **

_Ok_   
_You never told me why you can’t go?_

**_I’ve got therapy, gonna be pretty out of it afterwards. Won’t see u til tomorrow_ **

Lydia walks by a second later, near silent without her heels on. She’s already in her party outfit, sans shoes. Her hair, though, isn’t curled for once. It makes her look… older? Older, but in a good way. _Professional_. 

“Scrimmage ended,” Stiles calls out before she can disappear into the depths of the house. She stops, pursing her lips, as Stiles continues, “You sure you want Scotty here?”

“Mostly,” Lydia offers with a shrug. She’s always had a softer spot for anybody that’s friends with Stiles. “What’s the worst he can do, have an asthma attack?”

Stiles frowns, but nods. “I don’t know. He just doesn’t seem…” Stiles trails off, and sighs. “Like someone you’d have at one of your parties.”

Lydia tilts her head. “Neither do you?”

“Yeah, but I’m, _y’know_.” Stiles shakes his head. “Look, I just don’t want him to get picked on. He’s… he’s pretty soft. I don’t know. I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in forever, and I just, I want him to be _safe_ , you know? He's my brother. I just…” Stiles trails off, his head feeling like a muddled mess. Like if he forgot to take his Adderall. 

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Lydia says quietly as she offers a hand to Stiles. Stiles takes it as he stands up. Moments later, she pulls him into a hug, and in their embrace she whispers, “Remember, you’re dealing with heightened emotions. Go be a wolfman with Derek tonight, and come hang out tomorrow morning.” 

“Is this what being on your period feels like?” Stiles quietly asks with a huff as they both pull away from the hug.

“Probably,” she says with a smile. “Now go, before I have to kick you out.”

“You would never,” Stiles jokes as he pockets his phone.

“I have before, and I will again,” Lydia reminds him with a steely glare. Oh, yes, he remembers last year’s spring break party. He would very much like to forget it, too.

Stiles holds up his hands in surrender and walks around Lydia, heading towards the front door. “Going! Going.”

“Have fun!” Lydia calls out as he opens the front door. Right before it closes, he hears: “And don’t die!”

Stiles laughs as the crisp, outside air greets him. He looks up at the rising Moon, and smiles as he walks over to his house to retrieve his Jeep.

Allison walks into the foyer; she’s obviously heard Lydia’s parting words with Stiles.

“What’s he doing that’s so dangerous?” she asks with a coy smile.

“Therapy,” Lydia answers airily. For all intents and purposes, it technically _is_ therapy.

“Oh,” Allison notes, and then seems to recall why she’s looking for Lydia in the first place. “ _Oh_ , I have a question.”

“Shoot,” Lydia says as she continues on her mission to find the missing lighter stick. Allison falls into step behind her.

“Would it be alright if we have another girls night? After the party, I mean. I’ll help clean up.”

Lydia hides the way her breath hitches slightly. She can’t help it, doesn’t want to help it. 

“Your parents?” Lydia asks.

“I’m old enough to handle myself.”

“In that case, you can spend the night _whenever_ ,” Lydia remarks as she opens yet another drawer and finds nothing. “You know how much I like you.”

“I don’t think I do,” Allison responds in a near-teasing tone before asking, “What are you looking for?”

“The stick lighter,” Lydia mentions, a little bit confused. She’d like to blame Stiles, knowing his history with fire and his near-pyromaniac ways, but she knows he wouldn’t. Not anymore, at least.

“Oh!” Allison perks up, “I think I saw it in the garage, when I was getting the extra fairy lights.”

Lydia turns on her heel and looks at Allison with a smile. “Lead the way.”

Allison doesn’t hesitate to take control.

* * *

“It’s about control,” Derek says as he stands in the doorway of the Hale house, and Stiles feels like kicking something. Maybe Derek. Maybe Derek in his stupid face. “The wolf doesn’t control you. You control it.”

“I still don’t get how the wolf and I are supposed to be… two different things.”

“You are.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Stiles mutters in annoyance. “It’s just me, myself, and I in my head. Nobody else.”

Derek gives him a look, frowning even more. It’s not as intimidating as it should be, considering that Stiles knows what Derek’s going through. He’d seen the freshly dug grave when he arrived, even noted (what looked like) a Wolfsbane flower in the center on it. Stiles knows better than to ask Derek about it, though. Not while the grief is so fresh. Not while the embers are still warm. 

“What? It’s just how I feel. I don’t… I don’t feel out of control, and I don’t feel like I’m _not_ myself. I just feel like what I always feel is... more accessible.” Derek has a flat expression on his face. “Oh, come on man, don’t give me that look! You’re supposed to be my wolfy mentor here, or whatever. Give me some real advice. What am I supposed to do?”

“This is real advice.” Then, as Derek processes what Stiles said: “I’m _not_ your mentor.”

“Then what exactly are you?”

“We’re brothers, now.” 

Stiles’ frustration dissipates for a second as he laughs a bit. “Is this the part where we cut our palms and shake on it? Blood brothers?”

“What?” Derek says on reflex, taken aback. “No.”

“ _Booo_ , boring,” Stiles hums as he takes a seat on the house’s foundation wall, idly kicking his legs. Derek walks down the front steps to stand in front of Stiles. He seems to study Stiles for a moment, and Stiles takes it as bait to engage in a one-way staring contest. A few seconds in, Derek blinks, and Stiles gives a fist pump. “I win.”

Derek ignores him as he remarks, “The Moon’s out." His stare is near accusatory.

Stiles glances up and sees the Moon finally peeking out from behind the clouds. It's beautiful; but, then again, it's always been beautiful. It just holds more meaning, and more power for Stiles now.

He remembers, nearly a decade ago, sitting on the bumper of an ambulance with a shock blanket draped around his shoulders, watching as his house burned down. He remembers looking up at the stars and thinking that maybe, just maybe, the heat of a star would be enough to make him feel something again. Would be enough to make him no longer numb, no longer cold beyond meaning.

He remembers a few years later, looking at the pictures of what remained of the Hale's property. He remembers looking at it and knowing it wasn’t _right_. It wasn’t right because the heat of the stars and their supernova deaths were not what he was looking for all those years ago when he burned down the Stilinski family home. It was warmth.

He thinks about the now, and how the Moon isn’t the boiling heat of Helios. Its rays of light are that of reflection, bounced from the sun, sent back to Mother Earth. Stiles can look at the Moon and feel warmth without the spark, flicker, flicker, flame burning him alive. It casts shadows dark enough for all his stray candelabra thoughts to dance with abandon; under the scrutiny of daylight, he wouldn’t be able to see—wouldn’t be able to control—those intrusive, instinctive flames. It creates a chiaroscuro world in which Stiles can (potentially) thrive in.

He’s never felt more at peace. It’s like, for the first time in his life, his mind is blissfully _quiet_. 

And, of course, Derek has to disrupt that moment.

“You’re not shifting,” he notes.

“Should I be?” Stiles asks as he looks back down at Derek. He feels terrible for breaking his gaze with the lovely Moon, but it can wait. Derek, obviously, cannot.

“You’re supposed to be out of control.”

“Why do you sound disappointed that I’m not?” Stiles questions as his brows lower.

Derek doesn’t deign to answer him, and instead, walks back up the front steps and inside the house. Stiles remains in his spot, and leans back onto his hands, gazing up at the Moon again.

He’s not going to lie, he _does_ feel an urge. But it feels easy to control. Specifically, he wants to howl. Not at the Moon, no, that’d be _wayyy_ too cliché. Stiles wants to howl… for something else. Something that pricks at the edge of his mind, like a little string tugging on his brain. Something. _Someone_. But he doesn't know where, or what, or _why_.

So, he puts his mental candle snuffer over that little flame for now. He can deal with it when he figures out just how dangerous that spark of fire actually is.

Derek emerges from the house again, and walks up beside Stiles. Stiles looks up at him, and Derek is offering a few pieces of paper. Stiles shifts his weight to accept the offer and looks at the pages with a frown. 

“That’s what I know about bitten wolves.” 

“Dude,” Stiles says, deadpan. “I found more information on the internet.” 

“The internet isn’t reliable,” Derek grumbles as he, once again, retreats to the house.

“And your chicken scratch notes are?” Stiles calls after him.

Stiles rolls his eyes as he begins reading. Despite the low lighting, he has no trouble making out what's written. Stiles can’t tell if it's some sort of night vision, or if the Moon is simply bright enough to be helpful. Either way, Stiles reads and mentally notes the most important aspects. He assembles them into a list of helpful bullet points in his mind of Bitten Wolf Facts. It goes as follows:

  * Can be turned from an Alpha's bite.
  * Can’t be controlled on their first Full Moon.
  * More susceptible to bloodlust than born wolves.
  * Need to find an anchor as soon as possible.



Stiles huffs. This still isn’t helping. Derek doesn’t know anything. Then again, Derek’s… sister? (Stiles' very dark, very morbid, very incredibly distasteful bets are on her being Laura Hale.) Just died. Hell, Stiles needs to check his priorities. 

The anchor bit, though, he doesn’t understand. Stiles stands up to follow Derek inside, still harboring a confused expression as he looks at the papers, but—

 _Crunch_.

It’s distant. It’s distant, but it’s unnatural. Stiles doesn’t know how his ears picked it up since he wasn’t even using his enhanced hearing, but he heard it, and he hears it clearly now. 

_Crunch, crunch, snap, crunch_.

Steps on the forest floor. Multiple steps, in fact.

Stiles, light on his feet, hurries inside.

“Somebody’s in the woods,” he says in a whisper the moment he sees Derek, who’s sitting on the floor reading a book. Derek perks up and his eyes go distant for a moment as he listens. 

Derek mutters, “Hunters.”

“Hunters?” Stiles squeaks. “But the preserve is protected land?”

Derek shakes his head. “Werewolf hunters.”

“Are you saying people _hunt_ us?” Stiles squeaks as he feels his panic boiling up from below. Before it can get out of control, he remembers his stupid psychiatrist’s advice of 4-7-8. He takes the time to breathe. Then: “Actually, you know what? I really shouldn’t be surprised. Okay. What do we do?”

“Stay quiet. Hide,” Derek says as he snaps his book shut. “Follow me.” 

With little hesitation, Stiles follows Derek up to the second floor. The dark, charred floorboards creak under their weight, and Stiles is afraid they’ll fall through any second. Shockingly, they don’t, and Derek leads them to what looks like an office. Or, the remains of one. Derek settles down on the half burnt couch and opens his book again, uncaring and cold to the outside world.

“Dude!” Stiles says, still whispering. “That’s it?!”

“You can lock the door, if you want,” Derek mutters as he flips a page.

Stiles brings his hands up to his hair and tugs at it in frustration before remembering to breathe. Four… seven… eight. He walks over, shuts the door, and locks it. Then, he takes up post by the dirtied window, looking out and honing in his hearing. 

He still hears the hunters; they’re closer now. Closer, but… they don’t seem to be heading in the direction of the Hale house. Stiles sighs slightly in relief. After all, while his Jeep may be parked around back, it isn’t exactly _hidden_. Not to mention, the freshly dug grave is far from subtle. If hunters come close…

Stiles closes his eyes and hones in his hearing again. Further… further… _further_ … 

The hunters are nearly out of his range. And…

 _Crunch, crunch, crunch, snap, crunch, snap, crunch, crunch_. 

They’ve turned around.

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters and brings up a clenched hand to his mouth, biting his knuckle. 

Stiles doesn’t even realize that—that his _teeth_ are out and he’s drawing _blood_ until Derek has half a mind to hiss, “ _Stiles_!”

Stiles instantly withdraws his knuckle from his mouth and tries to breathe. “Sorry, sorry. The hunters, they’re coming back.”

“You're not the only one with ears.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, glad that his back is turned to Derek. He opts to keep his eyes open this time, glued to the window as he hears the hunters come closer. 

Then, one of them speaks. 

“ _Quiet tonight._ ”

“ _Too quiet_ ,” another one, more authority in his tone, remarks. 

Agonizing minutes pass as Stiles continues to listen to their footsteps. Eventually, they’re close enough that he can hear their quiet, controlled breathing, and their heartbeats. _Three_ , three distinct heartbeats. They’re all scarily steady. 

Hiding in the house, Stiles doesn’t feel like a monster. Yet, these hunters seem to be tracking down werewolves like they are. He idly wonders about the larger dynamics at play, if there’s any treaties that exist, laws within the supernatural world. It doesn’t seem like there are any, if this kind of hunting is allowed. 

Stiles hasn’t even _done_ anything. 

Well, _yet_. Never know when claws and teeth might come in handy; he’s not averse to fighting back.

Maybe that’s why the hunters are as diligent as they are. Maybe they know that darker natures lurk within everybody, and how being a werewolf only brings that nature closer to the surface. Stiles doesn’t know how to begin to explain that having those urges closer makes them easier to control; better the devil you know, keep your enemies closer, et cetera. His years of therapy have made him intimately familiar with the way his ADHD wired brain works, the way his PTSD affects him, and the way his pyromaniac tendencies tempt him into lighting another fire and how to resist. _Repression_ does nothing; he’s learned that the hard way. 

Stiles manages to tear himself away from the window for a moment as he looks over at Derek. A pang of sympathy, of empathy resounds in his skull. 

Derek looks up from his book. “ _What_.”

“Nothing,” Stiles mutters as he turns back to the window. “Just wondering why they hunt werewolves. Us.”

“They’re hunters. It’s what they’ve always done and it’s what they’ll always do.”

“Seems a bit barbaric.”

Derek is silent, and Stiles hones his hearing in again. The hunters are _very_ close, so close that Stiles can actually… he squints his eyes. In the clearing, he can see them. Three of them, as he’d correctly heard. Two wield guns, one wields… a _crossbow_?

“Wow,” Stiles whispers. “A _lot_ barbaric.”

The hunters look around the house. Stiles holds his breath and feels the tension build within his chest, like a flame seeking an oxygen source to ignite. They stick around the front, thankfully, and return the way they came. The grave and Stiles’ Jeep go unnoticed. He exhales, and almost feels dizzy. Briefly, he notes the fangs in his mouth and the claws in his hands. Breathe. _Breathe_.

A minute of nearly meditative breathing later, and the claws and teeth are gone. He sighs in relief as he tunes into the hunters again. Time crawls on as they hike into the distance. Eventually, he loses their sound entirely. 

“So,” Stiles starts as he turns around and lets himself slide down the wall until he’s come to rest on the floor, “is it kill on sight? Or like, capture and kill? Catch and release?”

“They’re not fishers.”

“Right. So that’s a no to catch and release.” Stiles taps his fingers on his knees and notes how his hand is already healed from the self-inflicted bite. “Woah. Do—do we heal faster on a Full Moon?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.” Stiles begins to hum a tune in beat with his tapping. “So, the hunters.”

Derek still doesn’t look up from his book. Stiles squints as he tries to make out its title, but it's a hardcover whose sleeve has been removed. There’s no labels on the book.

“They could kill you on sight," Derek finally says. "Or they could capture and torture you to the point of making you wish they'd killed you on sight,” he remarks dryly, eyes still glued to the pages. Stiles somehow doubts he’s still reading. Trying to, maybe. Actually reading, no. 

“Cool, even cooler,” Stiles responds with a smile. It’s not a happy smile. Then, he remembers: “Hey, you ‘ve mentioned Alphas a few times; are there others? Like, Alphas can turn humans, but we can’t?”

“We’re Betas.”

“Betas,” Stiles hums. “So, like, is that normal?”

“Most werewolves are Betas,” Derek says as his tone starts to become slightly annoyed, as if he’s speaking to a child. 

“So, you’re—we’re looking for the Alpha.”

“Yes.”

“He’s the one who turned me.”

Derek’s eyes pause, and he looks up at Stiles. “You know their gender?”

“Um,” Stiles hesitates. “No? I assumed, or, no, I guess, I don’t know. I guess he just… feels like a he. I can’t explain it.”

Derek’s brows furrow as he seems to acknowledge what Stiles said. His eyes flick back down to the pages, but he says, “Betas have a connection to their Alpha.”

Stiles nods with parted lips. “We could use that connection to find the Alpha.” Then, with a flutter of curiosity, Stiles asks, “Wait, why did the Alpha turn me in the first place? Like, do Alphas just… turn people? Like vampires?”

Derek seems to nearly roll his eyes at the vampire comment. “I don’t know.”

“...She was a werewolf, too, right?” Stiles tentatively asks.

The intention in the question must be beyond clear to Derek, because the temperature in the room plummets. Stiles nearly bites his cheek with sharpened teeth. _Breathe_.

Uneasy moments of silence pass between the two men before Derek finally says, “Yes.”

“You were close," Stiles can't help but observe. The Moon tugs at his more impulsive desires, the want to _know_. 

A beat, two, three. “Yes.”

Stiles blinks, looks away, then swallows. He knows how he used to feel whenever people asked about his mother: _how dare they? How dare they try and understand when they know nothing, absolutely nothing about their situation, their family, their suffering, their pain, their grief? As if words will heal the permanent hole in Stiles’ chest, hollow, cold,_ nothing _. Nothing nothing **nothing**._

But.

He also knows that keeping those thoughts trapped within his lungs only lead to them combusting. 

So, he forges forward, and considers the facts for one final time. All bets off. Only two people weren’t in the Hale household at the time of the fire: Derek Hale, and his sister, Laura Hale. Derek is here; Laura isn’t. Laura isn’t because she’s buried in the dirt, on Hale ground where so much of her family died before her. Underneath Wolfsbane, she’s rotting, rotting, dead; to never run under the Moon again.

“She’s your sister,” Stiles says. “L—”

Before Stiles has the opportunity to finish speaking her name, Derek has moved across the room in a flash of movement, picked up Stiles by his shirt, and pinned him against the wall.

“ ** _Don’t_** ,” Derek growls, his eyes a startling electric blue, his claws tearing holes in Stiles’ shirt, and his sharp teeth bared, “say her name.”

Stiles is taking in quick breaths, and his claws are digging into the wall. “ _Okay_ ,” he manages to squeak out in a rush of words, “okay, got it, message received, understood, _rozumiem_ , _entiendo_ , _je comprends_. I didn’t know her, I won’t say a word about her. Stiles will shut up now. Please don’t kill me.”

Derek’s claws retract and his eyes fade back to their normal hazel-green. The grave expression on his face remains as he lets Stiles go. He picks up his book from where it dropped on the floor, and exits the room in silence. Stiles is left to calm his breathing as he looks at his shaky hands. Slowly, his own claws retract as well. 

God. Stiles makes a big mental sticky note in his brain.

**DO NOT PISS OFF DEREK HALE.**

He sighs. That should do it. In all honesty to himself, he chose the worst possible night to try and talk to Derek about his dead sister.

Reasons why it was the worst possible night for Stiles—the smartest dumbass and dumbest smartass to ever live—to try and talk to Derek about his dead sister:

  1. Full fucking Moon.
  2. Full fucking Moon.
  3. Full fucking Moon.
  4. Also, he _literally just buried her_.
  5. What the fuck is wrong with you.



Ah, well. Curiosity killed the cat—er, wolf, but satisfaction brought it back.

Stiles shakes his head as he pulls out his phone to check if he’s missed anything, since it seems like _training_ is over for the night (even though the night has barely begun). Stiles is oddly pleased to see a small collection of notifications; it activates something warm and comforting just below his rib cage that feels oddly similar to the way the moonlight felt on his skin earlier tonight.

The first text comes from Scott, at a little over an hour old:

**[ Lt. Scotty ]**

_Is it ok if I stay at your house tonight_

**_Yeah bro of course_ **   
**_Don’t u have a key?_ **

Stiles only hopes that Scott is able to find Lydia, let alone talk to her. The next came from Danny, dated fifty, then forty minutes ago:

**[ Danny Phantom ]**

_Where r u?_   
_Nvmd lydia just told me ur at therapy_   
_Glhf lol_

**_Wish I was there tbh_ **   
**_Therapy isn’t worth it today lol_ **

It isn’t even a lie. The final text comes from Harley, only half an hour old:

**[ Harley Quinn ]**

_party’s pretty boring without you! :/_

**_Aww I miss u too_ **

Stiles hums as he closes his texts and opens _Words with Friends_ , specifically, to his current game with Lydia. He chews his thumbnail as he looks over his letters, only to get another text from Scott before he can dial his focus in.

**[ Lt. Scotty ]**

_No_   
_Your dad said youd give me a spare_

**_My bad_ **   
**_Definitely forgot_ **   
**_Lydia has a spare key u can ask for_ **

_Lydias busy_

**_Dude just go up and talk to her, she’s never that busy_ **   
**_Say it’s urgent or something_ **

_No like shes busy busy_   
_Like busy making out with someone busy_

**_Dude details, with who???!!!_ **

_Allison_

Stiles jumps with a fist pump and yells out, “Yes!” Somewhere else in the house, with his enhanced hearing, Stiles can hear Derek grumble in annoyance. 

**[ Lt. Scotty ]**

_**This is a grand day for humanity, Scotty boy** _   
_**Ur a witness to history in the making** _   
_**In the making out lol** _

_So like… youre cool with that?_

**_With what?_ **

_Lydia kissing a girl_

**_Not sure why I wouldn’t be cool with it_ **

_Idk_   
_Didnt know california was as progressive as everyone always says it is_

**_Yeah dude, for the most part_ **   
**_I mean, Harley and Danny are both out_ **   
**_Harley’s even head of the GSA club_ **   
**_There’s another gay guy on the lax team I think_ **   
**_And Lydia and Allison aren’t straight_ **   
**_Obviously_ **

_Yeah_

**_And u didn’t hear this from me_ **   
**_But Jackson’s not straight either_ **

Stiles looks down at the message he just sent. Blinks once. Blinks again.

Why the _fuck_ did he say that?! Okay, yeah, he’s rambling a bit, but what the _fuck_? 

“Oh my God, I’m an idiot,” he mutters. Then, moments later, he frowns as he thinks about Jackson.

Look, it’s not that big of a deal that Stiles outed Jackson (even if Jackson is still in denial about it himself). It’s Scott, after all. He trusts Scott. Well, mostly? He doesn’t really _know_ Scott, he knows a younger version of Scott, but Scott seems nice? And they’re brothers.

So.

It’s fine. It’s fine! It isn’t an impulsive thing that he regrets sending.

At least he didn’t out _himself_. 

**[ Lt. Scotty ]**

_Wow_   
_Really?_

**_Yeah_ **   
**_Tbh it’s not a big deal around here_ **   
**_Okay well, th_** **_ere’s still idiots, but that shit doesn’t fly at school_ **   
**_Especially since Seth’s Law was passed last year_ **

_Seths law?_

**_It’s for anti-bullying and stuff_ **

_Oh thats cool_   
_I still need a key_

**_Oh shit yeah_ **   
**_I’d say break in but our house is decked with security cause my dad’s a freak_ **

_No key under the mat?_

**_Has hell frozen over?_ **

_No?_

**_Then no, there’s no key under the mat_ **

_You live in a nice neighborhood tho_

**_My dad’s the sheriff though_ **

_Ok true_   
_Lydia and Allison went upstairs_   
_I dont think shes gonna be coming back down_

**_LOL_ **

_Do you think I could stay with one of your other friends_

**_Hmm idk_ **   
**_Could definitely get a ride back to your place though_ **   
**_Speaking of_ **   
**_U gotta show me ur place_ **   
**_Is it like an apartment?_ **   
**_A badass bachelor pad?_ **

_Its a normal place_   
_A ride would be nice_

**_Lemme text some people_ **

**[ Harley Quinn ]**

_**Hey, Scott would need a ride home if u could drop him off?** _

_yeah, i drove him in the first place, but he told me he was staying at your house? i left the party a while ago :(_

**_Yeah, but nobody’s home so he can’t get in_ **   
**_It’s okay though_ **   
**_Appreciate u_ **   
**_Have a good night_ **

_you too! :)_

**[ Danny Phantom ]**

**_Hey, are u still at the party?_ **

_Maaaaybe_   
_Depends on why ur asking_

**_My friend Scott would need a lift_ **   
**_I think u’ve met him at lunch_ **

_??? Yea it's hard to forget the silent dude that's bcome ur shadow lol_   
_Also I’m here with a date and he’s my ride so like… can’t really help u out_

Oh, so everyone’s getting kissed tonight except for Stiles fucking Stilinski? Great. As per usual.

**[ Danny Phantom ]**

**_Is there anyone still there that’d be willing to drive him home?_ **

_Idfk_   
_Also lydia and allison were making out earlier_   
_U owe me 20_   
_I want my $$$ on monday or else ur laptop gets it_

**_Yeah yeah_ **

And now he's out twenty bucks. 

Alright. Stiles really doesn’t want to have to do this, but… desperate times, desperate measures. Lydia wouldn’t mind Scott staying in a guest room, right? _Riiight_. He navigates over to Lydia’s contact and presses the call button.

It rings.

And it rings.

And it _riiiiings_.

“ _Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail of Lydia Martin. I’m not available at—_ ”

Stiles hangs up and calls again. He taps his foot on the floor as its dials. _Come on, Lydia_ , helping out a friend’s friend is a little bit more important that getting laid. Probably. 

“ _Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail of Lydia—_ ”

Alright. Fine. _All_ fine. He’ll just call again, and if she doesn’t pick up, he’ll text her. But she’ll definitely pick up. Definitely.

“ _Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail—_ ”

Okay. 

**[ Lydia Deetz ]**

_**Scott needs the spare key u have to my house** _

He stares at the message for a long thirty seconds.

**[ Lydia Deetz ]**

_**Soooo** _   
_**Allison** _   
_**U get that** _   
_**See, u don’t even need me as ur wingman** _   
_**Ur independent** _

_**U also cost me $20 so thanks for that** _   
_**Couldn’t have gotten together any other night?** _   
_**Like?** _   
_**Had to be tonight?** _

_**Lydia ur killing me** _   
_**Speaking of** _   
_**I think Derek almost killed me** _   
_**Like I saw my life flash and everything** _   
_**Might’ve been my fault tbh** _   
_**Definitely deserved it** _

_**Also werewolf hunters exist** _   
_**Saw some tonight too** _   
_**Like, I’m talking people with guns and crossbows and fuck knows what else** _   
_**S2g I thought they were gonna find us but then they just left** _   
_**Idk why** _   
_**Maybe the Hale house really is haunted** _   
_**Or maybe the hunters are dumbasses** _   
_**Probably the former** _

_**Tbh I’m not really getting the whole full moon thing** _   
_**I feel fine** _   
_**Actually I feel really good** _   
_**Did u know: werewolves heal faster when it’s a full moon** _   
_**Now u do** _   
_**Also there’s this thing called anchors and I have to find one but idk how to** _   
_**And I’m too scared to ask Derek now** _   
_**He’s still like really pissed** _   
_**Like, relocated to the complete opposite side of the house levels of pissed** _

_**I can still hear him though** _  
_**Is it possible for someone’s breathing to sound angry** _  
_**Because that’s what he sounds like** _  
_**Would probably be funny if it wasn’t so sad** _  
_**Like, he buried his sister, the girl in the woods u know** _  
_**There’s a grave by the house now** _  
_**With a wolfsbane flower growing on top of it** _  
_**That’s another thing I wanna ask Derek about  
The significance of wolfsbane. Like if it's the same as Hollywood makes it out to be  
Idk if u know this but wolfsbane is usually portrayed as like, kryptonite for werewolves  
** _ _**But Derek's too mad/sad for me to ask right now  
I value having my organs inside my body, where they belong** _

_**I’d rather join u in the grave than bury u** _   
_**Wow that was dark** _   
_**Don’t worry I’m pretty sure I’ll die before u** _   
_**What with all this WEREWOLF stuff** _   
_**I don’t mind though** _   
_**It’s cool as fuck** _

_**Idk how ur not scared of Derek** _

_**LYDIA CHECK UR PHONE** _   
_**I COULD BE DYING** _   
_**I’m not but like what if?** _   
_**This isn’t even about me u know** _   
_**It’s for my bro Scott** _   
_**My brooo Lyds my brother** _   
_**My brother from another mother** _   
_**That makes him ur brother** _   
_**Cause I’m ur brother** _   
_**That’s right. We’re twins that were separated at birth** _   
_**(This is the part where u gasp in shock and then start crying and we hug and the audience claps)** _

_**So like how does that whole ‘ditching ur own party’ thing even work** _   
_**U and Allison are the hosts LOL?** _   
_**I mean if my dad decides to come home early ur fucked either way** _   
_**Sooo much underage drinking** _   
_**Not even subtle tbh** _   
_**I don’t even wanna know how many cars are parked on our street** _   
_**I mean I definitely know, but I wish I didn’t** _

_**FUCK** _   
_**My driveway isn't blocked off** _   
_**Are there people parked there?** _   
_**There are definitely people parked there** _

_**Delete that text about underage drinking btw** _   
_**Technically evidence** _   
_**Delete that too** _   
_**And delete the texts with delete in them** _   
_**Including that one** _   
_**And including that text and this text** _

_**I’d probably leave but I think Derek would actually kill me if I tried** _   
_**He’s freaky like that** _

_**Dude** _   
_**What if all werewolves are like Derek** _   
_**The mental image alone is giving me like, an allergic reaction** _   
_**I can’t be the only comedian around here** _   
_**He’s like a brick wall** _   
_**Just like how ur a brick wall right now** _

_**LYDIA MARTIN PLEASE** _

Stiles finally gives in and clicks the call button again.

“ _Hello, you’ve reached—_ ”

 **Again**.

“ _Hello, you’ve—_ ”

FUCKING _**AGAIN**_!

“ _Hello—_ ”

Stiles lets out a scream of frustration, and lifts his arm up to throw his phone. He even goes as far as to _actually_ mimic a throw, but keeps the phone safely in his hand. Then, he notices the claws. And with another, higher-pitched shout, he drops his phone and it _crack_ -clat-clatters onto the hardwood floor.

“Please don’t be broken, please don’t be broken...” Stiles mutters on repeat as he reaches down to pick up his phone. He carefully grabs it by its sides, and turns it over to see his worst fear come true.

The screen is utterly shattered. He presses the home button, and tries to slide to unlock it, but the touchscreen is unresponsive. Letting his head drop back with a sigh, Stiles realizes that his only source of entertainment and communication for the night is _broken_. Even worse, he can only stare on in horror as he receives a string of texts from Scott.

**[ Lt. Scotty ]**

_Dude!_   
_Your dad showed up!_   
_Hes shutting down the party_   
_He just gave me a key so I wont need a ride_   
_Oh shit therapy is a cover story? Where are you?_

Fuck.

Moments later, his phone is ringing. The contact reads _Dad Stilinski_. Stiles, unable to use his touchscreen, can’t answer it. More messages from Scott slowly trickle in. 

**[ Lt. Scotty ]**

_Your dads pretty mad_  
 _Stiles?_  
 _Ok Im assuming youre busy again so_ _Im really sorry I got you in trouble_  
 _Ill see you tomorrow morning_

An alibi begins to form in Stiles’ head. Stiles only hopes Derek is going to be willing to play along, should the Sheriff look into it. 

After all, he’s certainly dealt with _worse_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I’m 100% winging this fic. So, have a lore drop in case some things weren’t clear/mentioned.
> 
> Stiles is 18 and a junior; Lydia is 18 and a senior. Peter’s 33, Derek is 21, and the Hale Fire happened 5 years ago. The timeline is purposefully different from canon, and the story starts in January of 2012 (so, keep that year in mind when I make references to popular culture and songs). Allison is 18 and a senior; Scott is 18 and a junior; Harley is 17 and a junior; Isaac is 17 and a junior; Jackson is 17 and a senior; Danny is 19 and a senior; Erica is 16 and a junior; Boyd is 16 and a junior; Malia is 17 and still out there in the woods as a coyote. I haven't really thought about adding anybody else yet. 
> 
> Background pairings (listed in order of relevance): Allydia, Scisaac, Berica.
> 
> Might be a bit OOC at times since I haven’t watched Teen Wolf since 2015 and remembering the details of the characters’ personalities is difficult. Feel free to give me pointers if you feel like something’s off. 
> 
> I imagine the Stilinski-Delgado house is similar to [this](https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/135-Ventana-Ridge-Pl_Grass-Valley_CA_95945_M98608-48293) property. Important factors: the large grass back/side yards (just put a lacrosse bounce back in there and it’d be perfect), the pool (I have ideas for some swimming scenes, both at Stiles’ house and at Lydia’s), backing to the woods (it might back to the very edges of the preserve? Like, the very, very, very far out edges of it), the deck (I also have ideas for a sunbathing scene), the unassuming front (the price of the property would be drastically lower in universe, maybe around 750k; Noah was able to afford it because of the life insurance payout from Claudia's death and the house insurance payout from the fire), and Stiles (and Scott) having the whole bottom floor to themselves (because, as somebody who had that during some of my teenaged years, it's really cool).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this first chapter! I certainly enjoyed writing it.


	2. Tonight Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A curfew is enacted. Stiles dreams—or maybe not? Lydia has a boring day of school. Stiles explains to Lydia how the Argents live up to their last name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support so far! And, special thanks to commenters: you’re all very sweet and I appreciate all of your kind words. 
> 
> This is your reminder that the story is set in the beginning of the wonderful year 2012. Here’s a sample of albums that came out in 2010/2011: Speak Now, Teenage Dream, Ceremonials, 21, Goodbye Lullaby, Born This Way, Hurry Up We’re Dreaming, Danger Days, Femme Fatale, Mylo Xyloto, and Sorry For Party Rocking. Feel old yet?
> 
> Also, I’m testing out shortening up the chapter length. This is for a myriad of reasons, but the big ones being 1. I want updates to roll out faster and 2. it’s much easier to edit and post shorter chapters. So, with that in mind, this chapter is only 1/3rd of the length of the last chapter. Let me know if you all prefer the longer chapters (20k+) or the shorter chapters (<10k).

“ _Stop_ ,” Lydia finally snaps, “messing with the radio.” 

Stiles’ hand stills as a peeved expression crosses his face. “Nothing good’s on,” he protests, leaning onto the back legs of the desk chair. “I can only handle so much Katy Perry.”

“I’m with Stiles,” Allison says from her spot on Lydia’s bed. Glancing down at Scott, who’s laying on his back on the carpet, Lydia notices that he’s far too engrossed in his book to notice their conversation. 

With her pencil, Lydia points towards her phone, and then the iHome. “Use the dock and play my music or turn it off.” 

Lydia knows better than to let Stiles play his own noisy noisy _noisy_ music; knows better than to let Allison—bless her heart—play nothing but Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus; knows better than to even brainstorm about what weird stuff Scott might listen to. 

Stiles groans at her judgement as he lets his weight fall forward—the chair loudly falling back on four legs—and clicks the speaker’s power button. Moments later, he slides (literally) out of his chair and onto the floor, joining Scott. Lydia rolls her eyes and returns to her homework. 

If she still could be grounded at her age, she definitely would be after the whole party incident. In all honesty, she’s rarely encountered the police. Stiles usually sits vigil by a police scanner all evening, warning Lydia if there’s mention of a party or a complaint—or sometimes, shutting down the party before the police (see: Stiles’ father and an unlucky deputy) even show up. Apparently, a concerned citizen (Lydia has all her money on one of their grumpier neighbors) put in a complaint about excessive noise and bright lights coming from the Martin residence. Honestly, the nerve of some people. The music was well within legal bounds and the party didn’t even have strobe lights! Either way, Lydia got away with a warning from Sheriff Stilinski (who—thankfully—turned a blind eye to the small amounts of alcohol present at the party) and the party was shut down. 

However, she isn’t the type to press her luck. So, parties are off the table for a while. Enjoying a nice study session in the comfort of her room is rather fine with her, especially in the company of her two favorite people. And also Scott, she guesses. Scott’s a bit weird. 

Okay, a _lot_ weird. 

For example: he’s been rereading the same page of _The Metamorphosis_ for the past twenty-two minutes. It’s not like he’s doing something else, no, not at all. He’s extremely intent, with his eyes flicking over sentences again and again as he holds the book above his head. Even _Stiles_ isn’t that bad with his reading habits.

Before Lydia has a chance to fully focus on her assignment again, Stiles’ phone (recently repaired, with a brand new screen, screen protector, and OtterBox case to boot) blares out a familiar ringtone that she knows all too well. Stiles is the dedicated type of person to customize ringtones for different people, and the ringtone that just played? It’s the Sheriff’s. 

Lydia glances down to Stiles, still on the floor, and sees his face shift through every single stage of grief before he picks up the phone.

“Y’ello?” Stiles greets. His voice is casual, but his face is twisted into a grimace. 

The room is quiet enough that Lydia can easily hear the Sheriff’s voice through the phone. “ _Where are you?_ ”

“Lydia’s. We’re studying.”

Technically, Allison and Scott are studying, Lydia’s doing her math homework, and Stiles is doing nothing. 

“ _Can Lydia confirm this?_ ”

“Lemme put you on speaker.” Stiles quickly puts the call on speakerphone and holds it up towards Lydia. “My dad is wondering if I’m actually studying with you.”

“Hello, Sheriff Stilinski,” Lydia greets sweetly. “Scott and Allison are with us, too.”

“ _The gang’s all here, then. You all know there’s a curfew in place, right?_ ”

Stiles’ eyes flash with recognition, but he shakes his head at Lydia. Scott’s not even listening, still absorbed by his book. Allison has a puzzled look on her face, but her eyes widen as she starts to look for her phone.

“No,” Lydia says. “Would you mind filling us in?”

“ _Beacon Hills has a 10 PM curfew until we can get a handle on these animal attacks. Seeing how it’s already so late, I’d suggest Allison call her parents and see if she can spend the night at your place. Stiles?_ ”

“Yeah?” Stiles responds. 

“ _You and Scott come home ASAP. And by ASAP, I mean right now. Don’t linger when you’re crossing the street._ ”

“Our house is like, fifty yards away,” Stiles mutters.

“ _And you better not make me walk those fifty yards and drag you two home myself._ ”

Stiles silently mouths _We’re adults_ , but then says, “Yes sir, dad sir.”

“ _Alright… see you soon. And, stay safe girls._ ”

“We always do,” Lydia airily replies with a pointed look at Stiles. Stiles rolls his eyes in response. 

“Bye dad,” Stiles says with little fanfare, and hangs up not a moment later. Then, as he’s picking himself up off of the floor: “Well. That’s our cue, Scotty boy.”

Scott remains on the floor as Stiles retrieves his backpack. Stiles gently kicks Scott’s foot to grab his attention. Scott’s deeply furrowed brows finally lift slightly as he confusedly looks up at Stiles, peering out from behind his book. 

“What’s up?” he asks, anxiety evident in his tone.

“Time to go,” Stiles reiterates. “Did you—did you miss that entire conversation?”

Scott’s mildly anxious appearance turns to nearly full-blown panic as he looks at Lydia, and then back to Stiles. “What conversation?”

Stiles looks at his friend in disbelief, but shakes his head. “I’ll explain on our way out. Come on.” Stiles offers his hand to Scott. He accepts, and Stiles pulls him up with an effortless ease that Lydia has never seen before. 

Well. _That’s_ a lie. She saw Stiles easily pick up some heavy boxes while they were setting up for the party that he definitely would have struggled with before. But, his casual strength is still a very new dimension for her. It’s only odd because she rarely sees it. Maybe if Stiles remained on the lacrosse team, she would have adjusted to his abilities. But… she only sees him in settings where his strength is hardly ever seen. 

Sure, she’s seen him at cross country practice once since his… werewolfication. Turning. _Metamorphosis_. Lydia’s even heard around school, mainly from all the lacrosse players on the cross-country team, how Stiles leads every single run nowadays. Coach Finstock is convinced Stiles spent all winter break training, even though Lydia knows for a fact that Stiles spent the majority of break rewatching the first season of _Game of Thrones_ , catching up on _American Horror Story_ , watching some new show called _Grimm_ , and binging every episode of _Fatal Attractions_ he could get his hands on. That, and some new video game about dragons in the sky? She always zones out when Stiles talks about video games.

Idly, Lydia wonders what shows and movies Stiles is making Scott sit through; wonders what games they play; wonders what she’s missing out on because of her differing interests; wonders if Scott is what Stiles has been missing all these years. She blinks away the distracting lines of thought as Scott and Stiles sling their backpacks on. Scott is still holding onto _The Metamorphosis_ like it’s a lifeline, but his gaze is distant; poor guy’s definitely tired and zoned out. She smiles, not quite knowing why. 

“Alright,” Stiles says with a grin towards Lydia and Allison, “see you guys at school?”

“Bright and early,” Allison replies with a smile of her own.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Lydia warns.

“I think I should be saying that to _you two_ ,” Stiles instantly retorts with a knowing smile.

Allison picks up a pillow and throws it at Stiles, who quickly catches it and tosses it right back at her. Lydia shakes her head at the two of them.

“Trust me,” Lydia assures him, “we know how to get out of trouble.”

“And I don’t?” Stiles jokes back.

Lydia shrugs. “Only sometimes. Only when I’m around.”

Stiles laughs softly, and says another few parting words to Lydia and Allison. Moments later, he and Scott are exiting Lydia’s bedroom and closing the door behind them. Lydia doesn’t have to ask Stiles to lock the front door behind himself; he knows the drill, considering they’ve had keys to each others’ houses for years now.

“I think my parents want to meet you,” Allison finally says a couple minutes after the boys have left. Her tone is almost warning in nature.

“I think I’d be upset if they didn’t,” Lydia responds. “Do they know we’re dating?”

Allison hums as she rolls onto her back. “...No?”

“You _haven’t_ told them?”

“It’s all so new still,” Allison admits in a rush. “And they usually don’t trust my judgement, even if I _am_ an adult. To my dad, I’ll always be his baby girl. And my mom...” Allison doesn’t finish the statement, letting the possibilities float in the air.  
  
Lydia considers the sentiment, rolling the thought around like her mind like a smooth marble. Will Allison’s parents give her a deeper look into Allison herself? Will she finally see the _other_ side of the girl? Lydia keeps digging, digging, digging in the grave of Allison Argent, but she’s yet to strike gold. Or, in this specific case, silver. 

Finally, she says, “Maybe once you tell them, I can come over for dinner? I’m known for making stunning first impressions.”

Allison’s anxiety partially melts away at Lydia’s words, but another part of her is still reserved. Lydia can’t bring herself to feel guilty at her curiosity. 

“That sounds great,” Allison responds with a smile of her own. It’s warm, warm as her dark brown eyes, but Lydia can see the haunting edges of a dirt-filled grave wriggling just below.

Just _what_ is Allison hiding?

* * *

The howl echoes through the night. It pierces the clouds and strikes the Moon like a precise uppercut. The Moon ricochets its power into the land below, spreading its call through the town like an uncontrolled blaze. It’s terrifying and enthralling. 

And _Stiles_ :

Stiles is dreaming. 

He’s in the school bus yard. It’s completely dark, and it feels mostly deserted. He’s not exactly sure why he’s here, but he doesn’t question it either. Stiles’ world is coated in a crisply clear filter of unreality. A breeze cuts through the night, chilly and biting. Despite only being in his pajama pants and t-shirt, he feels comfortably warm. He looks up at the Moon, and smiles.

The asphalt is rough on his soles, but not painful. Pain is a distant concept, nowadays. His bare feet carry him in an unknown direction. It’s a pull—gravitational. Like stepping closer to a source of heat, seeking out the bonfire on a cold, winter night. It’s completely natural, human nature.

 _Human_ nature?

His train of thought cuts off as he rounds one bus and sees another. Within it, he sees… he sees _something_ silhouetted against the bus windows. Curiosity burns within his chest. Stiles notices the open bus door, and with only a brief moment of hesitation, he steps through it and makes his way onto the bus. 

There, Stiles sees him.

He’s not sure how he knows the monstrous being is a _him_ —he just does. Stiles feels his presence, feels it in his head. Just like how he can somehow smell the vengeance in the air, nearly taste the heated revenge. It’s almost… sweet. 

The creature has his prey cornered in the back of the bus, a pitiful, pleading man that would do better saving his final breaths. The human man looks… oddly _familiar_ , in that dream-scape way where all faces seem familiar. Stiles shakes off the feeling of déjà vu as he returns his gaze to the creature. The low ceiling of the bus only makes the monster in front of him seem even larger. 

The beast is terrifying, and Stiles is utterly terrified. Despite his fear, his feet stay firmly planted on the floor of the bus. The beast turns, lightning quick as his glowing, magma red gaze analyzes Stiles. Stiles holds his breath and feels his own claws dig into his clenched hands. Fearing drawing blood, Stiles opens his palms. Then, fearing confrontation, Stiles holds up his hands in surrender.

“Hey, don’t mind me. You, uh, you do you,” Stiles manages to say through his fright.

The beast must be satisfied with Stiles’ answer, because he turns away and returns his attention to the cornered man. 

And then, _then_ the monster raises his claws, and _slash-slash-slashes_ down. Stiles hears the cut of skin, of muscle, the breaking of bone.

He experiences something similar to when he was watching the fire (the fire _he_ started) spread throughout his childhood home all those years ago. It’s a sickly form of morbid fascination; it's a dark and deeply rooted understanding. It’s seeing the danger of the flame and wanting to indulge in its beauty. The fire consumes the same way this beast kills: without hesitation. With how thick the vengeance permeates the air, Stiles doesn’t want him to hesitate.

The beast stops, and the man is still alive, but only barely.

Stiles feels sick at the sight of it all and his breath is caught in his chest. The monster moves aside, slightly, and goes still. It’s like he’s offering up the body to Stiles, showing him the mutilation. The savagery. 

Pulled by an unknown force, Stiles moves closer, one agonizing step at a time, to the monster. And in a flash of movement, a moment where Stiles believes that the monster decided to kill him, their positions are switched. Stiles is standing over the broken, beaten, bloodied man. He can feel the heat of the beast’s breath hovering just behind him.

And, and _then_ , all Stiles can feel is the _rage-revenge-retribution_ that floods his senses.

Squatting down in front of the man, Stiles unleashes his claws, and slowly drags them across the man's neck. Stiles blinks rapidly as satisfaction born from vengeance wracks his body; he nearly shivers at its strength. His face is heated in horror and shame, and something else he doesn’t dare to name. He feels like he can’t breathe—oh God, why does it feel so _right_? 

Blood gushes from the man’s throat as an ugly gurgling noise chokes out of him. The floor of the bus is rapidly filling with _red red red_. Stiles slowly stands, steps back, and turns to look up at the beast. For comfort? For approval? For a reminder that he’s not the actual monster here?

He’s not sure what he finds when he manages to make eye contact: all he knows is that he’s _caught_ , caught in hypnotic bloodlust gaze of **_red red red_** —

* * *

Stiles’ wakes, heart thudding, and sits up with a bolt. He lets his head rest in his hands for a long, few minutes as he tries to settle his breathing. Slowly but surely, he feels his teeth and claws recede. His breaths are steady and even in the quiet of his room.

 _Just a dream. Just a dream_.

He lets his head drop down onto the pillow again, sighing as he closes his eyes. 

Of course, that’s exactly when his alarm goes off. Stiles’ hand darts out and smacks the snooze button before the alarm can blare a second longer.

With a groan, he drags his hands down his face. He manages to pull himself out of bed, and his vision is blurry from sleep. It’s the type of _fuck-I-woke-up-tired_ morning that demands a hot shower. Also: he feels absolutely filthy, like he just finished cross country practice where they’d taken the path through the woods. Definitely a shower morning. Stiles winces when he turns on his lights, and keeps his eyes mostly squinted shut as he pulls himself through his morning routines. 

(Maybe, if he’d properly opened his eyes, he would’ve noticed the dirt on his feet and calves, or the blood that subtly stained his fingers and toes.)

Twenty minutes later, he’s clean, dressed, and ready for the day. Rubbing his eyes as he makes his way upstairs, Stiles takes in a variety of scents: Scott’s deodorant ( _ugh_ ), oatmeal, milk, bananas, granola, and the sickly sweet scent of—

( _Blood and revenge._ )

—syrup. 

Stiles shakes his head at the top of the stairs, trying to rid himself of the lingering dream-nightmare related thoughts. 

“Smells good,” Stiles says, voice still rough from sleep, as he walks across the living room and over to the kitchen. 

Scott looks over his shoulder from his barstool spot at the kitchen island. One of his hands is holding a full spoon of oatmeal (mixed with the toppings Stiles smelled earlier), the other is holding open that damn book. 

He honestly doesn’t understand Scott’s fixation with _The Metamorphosis_. Stiles swears, every free moment Scott has, he’s reading it. That, or that one book on lacrosse tactics and technique he has. Stiles also doesn’t understand why Scott gets up so early every morning. But! Those are not Stiles’ problems. 

Well.

Actually, they are.

“Dude,” Stiles mutters as he grabs a bowl and a spoon. “Why do you get up so _early_?”

Scott looks up from his book and quickly swallows his bite. “I don’t know?” he answers quietly.

“You don’t _know_?” Stiles echoes with a confused grin. He retrieves the milk from the fridge and the cereal from the cupboard as he continues. “You set your alarm crazy early and you don’t even know why?”

Scott frowns at that. “Well,” he tries to start before his expression scrunches up more, his voice still slightly low. “I guess it’s just what I’m used to.”

Stiles puzzles at that as he fills his bowl with cereal and milk. “Did your old school start earlier?”

Scott idly mixes his oatmeal around with his spoon, staring down into the bowl. “Not really.”

“Huh,” Stiles ends up saying as he rounds the island with his breakfast and spoon in hand. He settles next to Scott and takes a bite. Then, remembering something else, he asks with a mouth half full of cereal, “Hey, when are you finally gonna show off your place?”

The reply comes hesitantly, “I don’t know.” Scott pauses for long enough that Stiles almost picks the conversation back up, but Scott eventually says, “My mom said I could move in here.”

Stiles nearly spits out his cereal, but manages to swallow it down before he exclaims, “Move in?! _Dude_!”

Scott quickly tries to hush Stiles, much to Stiles’ confusion. 

“What?” Stiles asks.

“Your dad? My mom?” Scott worriedly asks in a hushed tone. “They’re asleep?”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Stiles says in realization, “nah, you don’t have to worry about them. They’re the heaviest sleepers I know. Trust me, I wouldn’t get away with half of the sh—” 

At that moment, Stiles’ hearing picks up a creak in the hardwood from the hall that leads to the master bedroom. He cuts himself off before he can say anything that would get him in trouble.

“—My voice won’t wake them up, is what I’m saying.”

Scott doesn’t look convinced. In fact, the correct phrase to describe the look in his eyes (even though they’re almost hidden by his mop of a hairstyle) is _extreme doubt_.

Of course, Stiles’ case isn’t helped when his father rounds the corner into the kitchen, still in his pajamas. 

“Mornin’,” his dad greets. 

“Morning,” Stiles mimics.

“Morning, sir,” Scott greets with a little nod of his head and a small smile.

His dad looks at Scott with an incredulous look before saying, “Scott. As flattering as it is, I think we’re well past that ‘sir’ stuff.”

Scott looks slightly taken aback, but blinks away his hesitation as he responds, “Of course, sir. I mean, uh, of course. Sheriff. Sir.”

His dad huffs in laughter and shakes his head. “Look, if Stiles only calls me sir to get on my nerves, or when he _knows_ he’s messed up—” His father sends an unimpressed smile Stiles’ way before looking back at Scott. “—then you certainly don’t have to call me that. You’re family.”

 _You’re family_. 

His father said it so easily that it makes Stiles want to jump up in the air and hoot and holler for joy. Family. _Family family family!_

Scott is family.

Well, he already knew Scott is family. But… to hear the words from his father? Spoken with such truth and such intention? The past few weeks have been a little uneasy, Stiles won’t lie, but for his own father to open his heart and home to Scott?

Stiles feels like he won the lottery; feels like crying tears of joy. In fact, he might be crying? He sniffles once before words begin to fall out of his mouth.

“Dude!” Stiles happily starts as he looks at Scott, “You’re family! _And_ you’re moving in!”

Scott looks like a deer in headlights. He looks like prey, caught and exposed in a trap. He looks like he might bolt any second now.

So, Stiles leans over and wraps Scott in a big hug. Scott wheezes at the strength of it, and Stiles remembers to lessen his grip slightly. _Werewolf strength_ , yep, he always forgets. The hug is tense, awkward due to their positioning, but Scott eventually—and slowly like ice cream in the winter—melts into it.

Satisfied, Stiles pulls back from the hug and gives Scott a solid clap on both of his shoulders. “Scotty boy, today, we’re going shopping. And we’re going to decorate the _fuck_ out of your room.” 

Because that’s what it is. It’s no longer a guest room that sits perpetually empty. It’s _Scott’s_ room.

“Remember the curfew,” his dad gently reminds them as he gets the coffee machine going. The bitter scent of coffee grinds fills the air and makes Stiles feel alert.

With a smile and a new energy added to his day, Stiles responds, “Wouldn’t dare forget it.”

* * *

Stiles pulls the Jeep into the first open spot he sees. He longs for his senior year, where he’ll have his own, assigned spot that he can paint to his heart's content. He’s been compiling ideas over the years (the current frontrunner: painting the Sierpiński triangle in the center of the space and calling it a day), but he knows it’s going to end up an absolute mess in the end without Lydia’s help. Seeing how she’ll be off at college… his spot is going to look more like a paintball arena than anything decent by the end of it all. 

Yes, he helped Lydia paint her spot over the summer of last year, but that’s different. They _both_ measured out the space and painted the exact lines of the golden ratio into it. It’s rather simple, compared to the other, flashier designs of the senior class, but Lydia wanted the golden ratio and _only_ the golden ratio. Who’s Stiles to argue with conviction like that?

Stiles and Scott exit the car, with Stiles locking it behind them. As he’s crossing the parking lot, which is mostly full due to how close it is to the first bell, Stiles notices two things: 

  1. Lydia and Allison sitting on a bench in front of the school.
  2. The campus is _swarming_ with police. Of course, Stiles knew something was up when his father had been up so early today, but he didn’t expect that something to be at the high school. Stiles’ attention flicks back to his dream from last night, and his mouth suddenly feels very, very dry.



Scott and him part ways as they approach the school, with Scott heading inside. Stiles risks a conversation with Lydia and Allison, even if it’ll make him a few minutes late. The first bell is due to ring any minute now.

“ _Hellooo_ ladies,” Stiles tries to casually greet as he walks up to them. “Beautiful day for the police to raid our innocent little school.”

“Morning,” Allison responds with a little wave.

Lydia looks up from her phone to retort, “Our school is _far_ from innocent.” Then, as she points a manicured finger between a few police cruisers, “I suppose you know what’s going on here?”

“Uhh,” Stiles starts, still unsure in his guilt, “ _nooo_?”

Lydia squints her eyes at him, and Stiles knows he’s being absolutely picked apart right now. He’s under the microscope of Lydia Martin, and she’s about to tell Stiles her verdict, except—

A car horn _beep-beeps_ , drawing Allison’s, and then Lydia’s attention away from Stiles.

“Oh!” Allison says with a grin, “that’s my dad.” Allison stands and rushes over to the car, a black SUV.

And, who else gets out of the car except _one of the fucking werewolf hunters_. Specifically, the leader-type one that wielded a crossbow. The man, Mr. Dad Argent, hands Allison a textbook and gives her a kiss on top of her head. If Stiles was nervous earlier, his heart rate is through the _roof_ now. 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Lydia hisses, her gaze flicking quickly between his eyes and his hands. 

Stiles takes a brief moment to breathe, his claws retracting, but it hardly relieves most of the tension building his chest. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Maybe we should get to class?”

Lydia peers at him with those knowing eyes of her, and warily responds, “Go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

The thought of Lydia being alone with Allison is no longer a pleasant one. Stiles can’t help but wonder how many _hunts_ Allison has gone on with daddy dearest. Or, if Allison would kill Stiles without mercy if she figures out what he is. Because Stiles _knows_ that if Allison knew, he would’ve already been visited by Mr. Argent and his crossbow by now.

Stiles pushes open one of the front doors of the school, and it loudly _clangs_ as it slams into the wall. The first bell rings, sharp and shrill and painful, as Stiles hurries inside. Breathe, breathe, _breathe_. Tone down the werewolf strength; he’s fine. 

He’s fucking _fine_.

Stiles quickly makes his way over to his locker. His quick pace slows as he notices Jackson waiting in front of it. Waiting for Stiles, of course. Is it too late to turn around? Stiles doesn’t need the textbooks in his locker, right? _Right_? He really doesn’t want to deal with Jackson fucking Whittemore right now—

“Hey!” Jackson calls out to Stiles, and, yep, it’s too late. Stiles accepts his fate as he walks up to his locker, unlocking it and grabbing the books he needs as Jackson talks to him. “Don’t ignore me, dipshit. We need to talk.”

“Don’t think there’s anything for us to talk about,” Stiles mutters as he glances at Jackson. 

“Oh really? Then tell me why you quit the lacrosse team.”

Stiles’ expression scrunches up at that. _Really_? Here, Stiles thought Jackson was going to accuse Stiles of being the reason why him and Lydia fell apart, even though they were doomed to fall apart from the start.

“Why do you even care?” Stiles asks, peeved.

“I’m the captain. I have a right to know,” Jackson responds in a tone similar to how Lydia always says ‘ _duh_?’

“You know,” Stiles starts, his tone snappy, “as much as I _looove_ benchwarming, I’m really not a fan of authority. Especially if that authority is coming from you. So, sorry to disappoint, but I’m done with the lacrosse team,” Stiles says with finality as he slams his locker shut. He can hear his items fall within his locker at the force of his slam. Shit.

“You’re still doing cross country, though,” Jackson points out, “and you’re running faster than anybody that’s ever attended this high school.”

Stiles… didn’t know that. Either way: “What about it?” 

“What _about_ it? You may have all the sheep fooled, but I know your secret.”

Stiles blinks at that, blinks again, his mouth slightly parted in shock. The phrasing... Jackson couldn’t…? No… that’d make no _sense_.

“You just don’t wanna get caught,” Jackson continues. “So, you either tell me where you're getting your juice, or I’m telling Coach Finstock, and you’re getting kicked off of the cross country team.”

“Wh-wh-where I'm getting my _juice_?” Stiles sputters out in confusion. “Dude, _what_? You legitimately think I’d be stupid enough to take _drugs_? My dad is the sheriff!”

“Exactly,” Jackson replies in that self-assured tone of his. “Everybody knows that his deputies turn a blind eye to you.”

Stiles considers that as he opens his mouth to respond. Except… Jackson is kind of right. The department truly does go easier on Stiles than if he were, oh say, some random teenage delinquent. Instead, he’s the _Sheriff’s_ teenage delinquent: they know Stiles won’t cause any real trouble. Usually. 

As he closes his mouth in thought, Stiles’ attention flickers to all the times his little troubles have turned into really damn big troubles: the fires, the Incident in Fifth Grade, the Incident in Sixth Grade, the Incident in Seventh Grade, the First Library Incident, the Second Library Incident (it was an accident that time, he swears!), the pranks of freshman year, the sophomore year dance crashing, the body in the woods, and now… 

Okay. So, Stiles _might_ have… finished a job. A gruesome, murdery job. Maybe. Or maybe, the cops are at the school for a completely unrelated reason, He’s really, really, really, really, _really_ hoping it’s the latter and that last night was a dream. But, considering everything that’s happened recently? It probably wasn’t. 

Oh God.

“Look, Jackson, buddy,” Stiles says, his words rushed and annoyed, “whatever you think I’m doing, I’m not.” The second bell’s sharp ring resounds throughout the school, the loud noise making Stiles wince. Moments later, the morning announcements begin to play over the intercom system.

“I’m not your _buddy_ ,” Jackson spits out as he begins backing away from Stiles, “and I’m gonna figure you out. Just you wait.” Jackson points two fingers at his own eyes, and then directs them in Stiles’ direction before turning around and walking down the hall.

Stiles rolls his eyes at Jackson as he turns away and hurries—thankfully, the opposite direction of Jackson—to his homeroom class. 

The morning announcements are ending just as Stiles enters the classroom, and Stiles frowns at the news of what's for lunch today: nothing good. Mr. Curtis begins to take attendance as Stiles takes his seat in the front row by the window, next to Lydia. 

Lydia gives him a look, specifically the ‘ _what’s up with you?_ ’ look of concern that most people misread as her ‘ _what’s your problem?_ ’ look of annoyance. Sometimes, in Stiles’ case, they blend, but right now? She seems genuinely worried and confused. Even Danny, who sits behind Lydia and usually doesn’t care too much about whatever is going on with Stiles, gives a glance between the two of them. Stiles can only sigh in exhaustion as he sinks deeper into his seat. He really wants to sleep through homeroom, but knows Mr. Curtis won’t let him get away with it.

“Stilinski?” Mr. Curtis asks, skirting around Stiles’ first name as he takes attendance. His nickname still goes unmemorized. 

“Here,” Stiles says as he momentarily raises his hand. 

“Try and get here before the bell, Mr. Stilinski,” Curtis warns before continuing to take attendance. 

Instead of saying something smarmy back at the teacher, Stiles chews at his thumbnail as he glances out the window. He really can’t wait until today is over and he can—

Outside, in the bus yard, a bus is cordoned off with yellow police tape. Stiles furrows his brow and holds his breath, mid-bite on his nail, as he watches two officers haul a body bag out of the bus’s rear emergency exit. In the clear morning sun, Stiles can see how the interiors of the windows in the back of the bus are painted a lovely shade of blood red.

 _Definitely not a dream, then_ , is the last thing Stiles thinks before he faints, his head hitting his desk with a loud _thud_.

* * *

“You do have your driver’s license, right?” Lydia asks, standing in front of Scott’s desk in chemistry as she tosses the keys to the Jeep to him. Scott nearly misses catching them.

“Yeah, of course,” Scott replies as he puts the keys in his backpack. Then, warily, he asks, “Is Stiles really okay?” 

“Of course,” Lydia lies with a smile. “A little fainting spell won’t kill him. I’m sure he’s more than happy to go home early.” 

Scott has an uneasy look on his face when he asks, “Why’d he faint?” 

“Our homeroom has a front and center view of the bus yard,” Lydia explains brightly, “and Stiles doesn’t have the strongest stomach.”

“So… it’s not graffiti?”

“Well, there was a full body bag,” Lydia confirms.

Danny swivels around on his stool to face the two of them, cutting in with, “It was pretty messed up. We’re talking ‘the entire back of the bus was covered with blood’ levels of messed up.”

Scott’s face scrunches up at that, while Lydia remains impassive. 

“Our teacher had closed the blinds, by the time we got back,” Lydia recounts as she turns to look at Scott again. “And Stiles is probably on his ass right now, happily playing Call of Duty and eating takeout.”

“Skyrim,” Scott cuts in. “He’s probably playing Skyrim.”

Lydia blinks, a little bit fazed at Scott’s comment. “ _Oookay_?”

Beside Scott, Lydia notices how Erica rolls her eyes slightly, but still remains quiet as she does her work. Scott looks down at his papers as he continues to say, “We play COD and Mortal Kombat together, but if I’m studying, he plays Skyrim. Or Mass Effect 2.”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Danny hums. “Smart man. ME3 comes out in March, right?” 

Lydia knows enough second-hand information about video games to follow along, but not to participate. She was never truly interested in them, growing up. Meanwhile, Stiles and his Game Boy were near inseparable for a period of time. She had her head buried in National Geographic magazines and spent a good majority of her free time at the math tutoring center. Tutoring, of course, for the advanced courses she hadn’t even taken yet. 

“Yeah, Stiles has the time to replay ME2,” Scott continues, “But… I’m a bit swamped with all the new school stuff.”

“Good luck with _that_ ,” Danny mutters. “You’re lucky you ended up with Harris, by the way.”

Scott’s brows furrow. “Why’s that? He gave Stiles detention for talking the other day. _Talking_.”

“Have you heard Stiles talk?” Danny asks, and Lydia can only frown with a small nod. He has a point. “But detention isn’t that bad. The other chem teacher, though?” Danny whistles low. “Yelsinov’s class is impossible to pass.”

Lydia huffs as she says, “Mr. Yelsinov is probably the smartest teacher at this school.”

“Yeah, and that’s why he’s the toughest grader,” Danny counters as he points his pencil aimlessly. “Either way, Harris isn’t the best, but he isn’t the worst, so,” Danny shrugs. They’re only able to have this discussion because of Harris having to step out of the room for a bit, otherwise (like Stiles from the other day) they’d all have detention. That, and Jackson’s temporary absence. Danny continues, “You know.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, almost with a confused tone. “Mr. Yelsinov is actually my homeroom teacher.”

“Oh shit,” Danny mutters, “sorry to hear that. Jackson also—”

And, speak of the devil: the door to the classroom opens, and in walks Jackson. He hangs the bathroom pass back on its hook and begins to make his way over to his seat, next to Danny.

“Well, boys, this was fun,” Lydia says with an annoyed smile. “But I have work to return to.”

Lydia quickly turns away and heads back to her desk on the opposite side of the room. The stool beside hers, Stiles’ seat, is pitifully empty. 

Here’s how the situation with Jackson is going: it’s not. They’re still in the _avoidance_ phase of the break up where Lydia is pretending that she doesn’t know Jackson exists. She honestly thinks that Jackson is doing a better job than she is. Lydia can’t help but glance at him when he’s not looking. It’s not out of some… _desire_ to have him back. No, thank you. She has Allison now.

She’s honestly not sure what she would do without Allison, but that’s neither here nor there. 

So, she sneaks glances out of pure curiosity. As much as people may think otherwise, Lydia truly cares about Jackson. She loved him, at one point. Probably. It’s such a contrite thing, _love_ in high school. Yet, here she is. 

Lydia still cares about Jackson in an odd way. If she had to pick out a Hallmark gift card to give to Jackson, it’d probably say ‘ _Wishing you well_ ’ in a sans-serif font with a minimalistic graphic design surrounding it. The inside would read ‘ _Even though we’re far apart, there’s still a_ (platonic) _place for you in my heart_ ’ or something equally cheesy.

And then she’d tear it up into a thousand little pieces and bury it in a shallow grave before she would ever give it to Jackson. Because Jackson isn’t what’s important anymore. In fact, there are only three things that are actually important to Lydia (as of this very second).

The three things that are actually important to Lydia (as of this very second):

  1. Her grades. That’s why she’s doing her homework in class, seeing how she’s already finished her classwork. There’s no time like the present, and even though she already received her early action acceptance letter to M.I.T. back in December (hooray!), she doesn’t want to catch a case of senioritis and slip behind in her grades. Not that it’d be a huge deal, seeing how she’ll be entering college as a junior, but… still. It’s important. Very important.
  2. Stiles Stilinski. That weird guy is her best friend. She might even go as far to call him her brother, but she doesn’t want to start sounding like sad little Scott now, does she? In short, whatever concerns Stiles usually concerns her. All that werewolf business falls under that category.
  3. Allison Argent. She’s internally screaming over that situation, considering Lydia is leaving for Massachusetts once this semester is finished. But, she will elegantly cross that burning bridge when she gets there. For now, she’ll play nice, have her fun, meet the parents, and dance this lovely dance.



Her brain flicks back to her interaction with Stiles, before he fainted in homeroom. It was… odd. Beyond peculiar. And then the fainting _itself_. Stiles isn’t the best with blood, _terrible_ with needles, but he’s seen dead bodies before. Crimes scenes. Hell, the guy has plans to work at Quantico when he’s older. A scene like that (because, yes, Lydia took a peak outside as she fretted over Stiles, and Stiles recounted it scarily perfectly as she and Danny escorted him to the nurse’s office) should be nothing for him.

And _yet_.

As soon as the last bell rings, Lydia’s determined to get her answers. 

* * *

Lydia closes the front door to the Stilinski house behind her. Taking off her heels and leaving them in the shoe rack, she notices the utter silence that encapsulates the house. She’s glad Scott still has lacrosse practice (and something about a job afterwards? Lydia wasn’t really listening), otherwise she wouldn’t be able to find Stiles alone.

“Stiles?” she calls out into the quiet. Not receiving a response, she makes her way down the stairs. The downstairs living room is empty: no signs of gaming, no signs of TV, no signs of takeout, no signs of life.

Alright. So, both Scott and Lydia were wrong. She’ll take that as a victory. 

She makes her way down the hall and to Stiles' room. The door is open, and Lydia’s jaw drops slightly at the sight of the room. 

It’s a warzone of pictures and papers. Yes, Lydia has seen this before, but _this_? It’s like Stiles took all the papers from his initial werewolf research binge and multiplied it by three. She pauses in the door frame as she takes it all in. Stiles even went as far to pull out his plexiglass dry-erase board that’s usually reserved for their difficult studying sessions. Now, it looks like a freaking _murder_ board. Meanwhile, his bulletin board on the wall is completely overrun and covered by papers that sprawl well beyond the board’s usual boundaries. 

Stiles is the epicenter of it all, standing in front of the dry-erase board with his hair sticking out wildly and a frenzied look in his eyes. He has a hand under his chin in deep thought as his gaze flicks around the board.

“ _Stiles_?” she says again, quieter and almost gentle. “Care to explain?”

Stiles’ attention takes a long few seconds to drop back down into reality, and he finally looks at her through the plexiglass. 

“You should probably sit down for this.”

Lydia nods as she closes her mouth. She makes her way over to Stiles bed, setting her bag down at the foot of it as she takes a seat. From her spot, she can properly make out the words written on the board and catch glimpses of what’s on the papers.

The board is divided into three segments, with all-capital letter headings written in Stiles’ rushed script:

  * _HALE_ , is what the right side of the board is labelled. She sees the long list of Hale family members, some with pictures and some without. A red piece of tape connects the Hale name to the other side of the board. Lydia’s eyes follow it with bated breath.
  * Her eyes trail over the middle of the board before she reaches the final destination of the connecting tape. The middle section is labelled _FIRE_. Lydia is familiar with these images of the Hale house and the aftermath of the fire. Of police reports that Stiles shouldn’t have, but somehow does. Finally, she looks over at the left side of the board, already dreading what she can clearly see in her peripheral vision.
  * The red piece of tape connects to the name _ARGENT_. 



Lydia feels dizzy, and she’s glad she’s sitting down. Stiles turns to her, with a grim look on his face.

“I’m really sorry to break it to you, but your girlfriend is a werewolf hunter.”

Lydia opens her mouth to respond, but closes it a second later in thought as she continues to rake her gaze over the board. There’s more unfamiliar faces than familiar, but Lydia’s stomach lurches when she sees a selfie of Allison. Then, moments later, she settles. And everything feels crystal fucking clear.

“You know what?” Lydia says, her voice high and light. “Now it makes sense why she wears a silver bullet necklace.”

Stiles flinches as he looks at Lydia, then back to the board with Allison’s selfie, then back at Lydia. He seems at a loss for words.

“You—?” Stiles tries to start. “You—and she—and I—and you didn’t think to _tell_ me?!” Stiles finally gets out. “Your girlfriend, whose last literally means _silver_ in French, wears a necklace of a _silver bullet_ , and your best friend, who’s a werewolf, tells you that _werewolf hunters_ exist—”

“I wasn’t thinking straight when I saw it!” Lydia defends as heat rises to her face. “We weren’t exactly wearing clothes at the time.”

“Yeah, you weren’t thinking _straight_ at all!” Stiles snaps back. He sighs as he rubs his face with his hands and sighs through his nose. “Sorry. It’s just… okay. It’s not a big deal. I can deal with this.”

“You really can’t,” Lydia absently counters.

“Glass half full, please?!” Stiles responds as he looks back at the board. “I always knew the Hale fire was suspicious as hell. I always knew it. I just never had the proof.”

“...And you do now?” Lydia hazards.

“ _Pshh_ , no,” Stiles admits with a huff. “But I have a theory.”

“Let me guess: it involves the Argents,” Lydia rhetorically says. Then, as she remembers what she and Allison (texting her parents) ended up planning over lunch: “I’m having dinner with them on Friday.”

“Oh joy,” Stiles mutters sarcastically. A moment later, his brows furrow, and then a wicked grin slowly creeps onto his face. His tone is genuine when he repeats, “Oh _joy_. You’re being invited into their _fortress_.”

“No,” Lydia says before Stiles can continue.

“ _Yes_.”

“No! I can handle Allison, but I don’t know anything about her parents. I haven’t even met her mother yet, and from the sound of it? She’s _really_ scary.”

Stiles continues, words rushed as he says, “It’s a perfect opportunity to learn about them and see if my theory holds any weight. All you have to do is play your cards right—”

“This isn’t a game of yours, Stiles, this is our _lives_.”

Stiles is shaking slightly with the anxious energy. “Yeah, but if I don’t treat it like one, I might actually lose my fucking mind!” An uneasy silence briefly falls over the two of them before Stiles takes a long exhale. Lydia notices the way he flexes his fingers, as if he’s barely resisting the urge to let claws creep out. “Please think about it from my perspective for one second.”

Lydia sighs as she closes her eyes. “My name is Stiles Stilinski. I’m an annoying little gnat that’s just been turned into a werewolf. My best friend is dating a girl that belongs to a family of werewolf hunters and I’m freaking out because that’s what I do best. The end.” She opens her eyes. “How did I do?”

“ _Hmm_ , I don’t know. You only left out, like, ninety-nine percent of the emotional details. Pretty accurate otherwise.”

“Try thinking from _my_ perspective, then.”

Stiles makes direct eye contact as he responds, “My name is Lydia Martin and I’m in the first relationship of my life that I’m actually enjoying. I probably knew on some level that my girlfriend is a werewolf hunter, or, or something dangerous, but I ignored all the warning signs because I _like_ danger. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be best friends with Stiles Stilinski.”

Lydia is quiet. She’s quiet because… because it’s true. The sharp edges that lurk beneath Allison’s girl-next-door demeanor are what drew her in. A Venus flytrap. And here she was calling Stiles the gnat. 

“How’d I do?” Stiles asks with a smarmy smile.

“I’d give it a passing grade,” she responds casually.

“What?! That’s like, at least B-plus material.”

She shrugs as she says, “Lacked my dramatic flair.” Stiles throws his hands up in defeat. Lydia takes it as an opportunity to get them back on topic. “Tell me about your theory?”

Stiles hums thoughtfully. “Yeah, so, I don’t have anything confirmed, but, I looked into some things.” Stiles vaguely gestures at the papers pinned and taped to the wall. “Already got an ID on the guy from the bus. One Garrison Meyers.” 

Stiles quickly tears down the paper and hands it to Lydia. It seems to be one page from a record of employment from the school. She skims it, but doesn’t seem to find whatever Stiles wants her to.

“How did you—” she starts on instinct before remembering _plausible deniability_. “Nevermind. Continue.”

“Alright, you might not know this, but that name is crazy familiar to me. Not ‘cause I ever met him at school or anything, but ‘cause he was the same guy that investigated _our_ fire.”

“...So?”

“So, he was an insurance investigator for structure fires—” Stiles points to the employment history section on the page, tapping it twice, and then leans back again. “—before he made the _wild_ jump to being a bus driver for the unruly teens of Beacon Hills High.”

Lydia recalls her long-held-yet-to-be-confirmed suspicions that Stiles started the fire that burned down his old home. “Maybe he was a bad investigator?” she guesses as she looks back up at Stiles. 

He shakes his head at her, but promptly stops as he considers it. “Okay, he _was_ a bad investigator, but that’s not what this was.” He points to the middle of the board, the _FIRE_ section, where an image of the burned down Hale house is taped front and center. “This wasn’t idiocy, it was intentional.”

Lydia stands up and walks over to get a closer look. Stiles, helpfully, points at a paper near the top of the board. She tilts her head up and reads it intensely: it’s a police copy of an insurance report completed by none other than Garrison Meyers. The cause of the fire is highlighted in yellow: _Accidental — Electrical Malfunction_.

A little chill goes down Lydia’s spine, and she’s not sure why. “It wasn’t an accident.”

“It obviously wasn’t an accident. Even the department’s initial reports—” Stiles smacks a different paper on the board, one of a police report. “—have _possible arson_ listed in every single category. But when the hotshot arson investigator rolls up and deems it accidental? _Bam_ , open-and-shut case.”

Lydia shifts her weight onto one foot and puts a hand under her chin, further analyzing the board. She suspects she looks similar to Stiles when she arrived earlier.

“It’s a revenge kill,” she concludes as she looks at Derek’s photo in the _HALE_ section, and Meyers’ photo in the _FIRE_ section.

“Exactly.”

“I can’t believe you were right,” she mutters in disbelief as she turns to look at Stiles. 

“Music to my ears,” Stiles says as he lets himself fall into his desk chair. It rolls back a foot before stopping. Stiles’ thought process seems to stall at the exact same time. “Wait, what am I right about?”

Lydia holds back a _duh_. “Derek being a murderer?” 

“What?! No! No—no it isn’t Derek.”

“How is it _not_ Derek?” Lydia questions. “His entire family was killed, and God knows how many people covered it up. He shows up in town—”

“It’s just, it’s not!” Stiles cuts her off, almost panicking. “It’s not Derek.”

Lydia turns around to look at the board again, looking at all the Argents and Hales and the wreckage in between. A moment later, she looks at Stiles again. One of his legs is anxiously bouncing. 

“How do the Argents tie into this?”

“Uh, duh? They’re werewolf hunters?”

Lydia gives Stiles a flat look as she says in a nearly sing-song manner, “Not what I’m _asking_." She turns around to consult the board again. "So far, you have one piece of evidence that shows there might’ve been a cover—” Lydia cuts herself off as Stiles’ theory becomes clear as day. “You think the Argents are the arsonists behind the cover up.” 

“Yahtzee,” Stiles confirms, completely deadpan.

Lydia nods, but then remembers: “That doesn’t change how literally all of the evidence points towards Derek being the killer. He has more than enough motive.”

Stiles shakes his head. “He has motive but he wouldn’t _actually_ —”

“If it’s not Derek, then who is it?”

Stiles’ expression twists up as he clasps his hands together. He seems like he’s conflicted about something. It’s almost like whenever he’s trying to keep a secret. Oh, that little piece of—

“ _Stiles_ ,” Lydia chides. “What do you know?”

Stiles holds his breath for a few seconds before letting out a flurry of words in one rushed exhale. “So I might’ve had a dream last night that wasn’t really a dream because I woke up this morning and it was so _obviously_ real, and the guy is like, one-hundred percent dead, but it’s not like I didn’t already _know_ that because I _might’ve_ seen—uh, well, I actually totally _definitely_ saw the werewolf that bit me mess him up really bad—like, I mean _really_ bad—and then I maybe might’ve possibly finished the job?”

Lydia absorbs it. Well, tries to absorb it. 

In the meantime, Stiles takes a sharp inhale, closes his eyes in a wince, and says in a beyond-small voice, “Please don’t be mad at me?”

“The Alpha,” Lydia starts.

“Yes…?” Stiles says as he nervously opens his eyes again.

“Attacked that man.”

“...Yes.”

“And you… _watched_? And then _ki_ —” Lydia struggles to get out the final words. “ _Killed him_?” she whispers in disbelief. 

Stiles nervously laughs with his response, “Well, _ah_ , I don’t really think I was in a position—”

“Why didn’t you, I don’t know, run away?! Stiles, that’s your thing! You freak out and _bolt_!”

“Come on, that’s not—I don’t—” Stiles cuts himself off. “My _thing_ is research binges. Running is an—an after school activity that I barely tolerate.”

Lydia blinks in disbelief, mouth agape. “You could’ve _died_.”

“No!” Stiles instantly counters with such vehemence that it shocks Lydia. It seems to shock Stiles, too. “I mean, no, I—I was safe. The Alpha, he wouldn’t have… _oh_.”

“Oh?”

“It was a test,” Stiles says as a form of horror dawns on his face. He repeats, “It was a test. And I passed.”

An impending panic feels like it’s being thrown over Lydia. She doesn’t waste another second as she pulls out her phone, finds a certain contact, and clicks the call button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, remember when I said the Steter might kickstart in this chapter? I might've lied. Does it count when Peter's in Alpha form? No? Alright, I'll just show myself out then. 
> 
> To be honest, I meant it when I said slow burn.


	3. Shark In The Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Werewolf 101 taught by Professor Derek continues, to little avail. Bang bang, Kate’s back in town; bang bang, she shot Derek down. Plan Retrieve Magic Bullet is a go. Lydia suffers through dinner with the Argents and levels up her sneak skill. Stiles, Lydia, and Derek reconvene post stealth mission. Stiles gets DonoWalled, again.

An eerie quiet blankets the preserve, and Lydia has the perfect view from the porch of the Hale House. The temperature is quickly dropping as the sun sinks. The sky is a deep blue, contrasting with the distant orange horizon and its sunset pink clouds. The trees are little more than silhouettes casting long shadows, as if the darkness is reaching, searching for something beyond this mortal realm. In the haunting presence of the burned remains of the house, she feels the same. 

Lydia’s glad she opted for jeans and a cardigan today. Otherwise, she’d be freezing right now. Not that anybody would be able to tell how chilly it is, based on how Stiles and Derek look. While both of them are in jeans, they’re only in t-shirts (Derek, in a raggedly thin Henley; Stiles, in that stupid shirt with the red, white, and blue target in the center of it. Honestly, she swears she’d discreetly gotten rid of all of his graphic tees from their freshman year). The two men are distinctly lacking any goosebumps. Idly, Lydia wonders if werewolves actually run slightly hotter than humans. 

“Start from the beginning,” Derek says grimly. 

“Well, uh—”

Lydia cuts Stiles off, “Stiles and the Alpha killed that bus driver last night.”

Stiles’ expression morphs into pure fear. Derek’s eyes widen, and Lydia can tell he’s trying to hold back his shock.

“Lydia!” Stiles hisses.

“I’m just ripping the band-aid off,” she defends.

“Is there _more_?” Derek asks (or, more accurately, demands).

“Of course there’s more!” Stiles snaps. “Do I look like the kind of guy who just, I don’t know, wakes up in the middle of the night and _kills_ somebody?!”

Derek frowns amusedly at that, completely understanding Stiles’ point.

“I just…” Stiles continues, “I thought it was a dream. I didn’t… I don’t remember waking up, or—or getting to the school, I just, suddenly I was _there_. And I didn’t…” Stiles tugs at his hair a bit in frustration as he tries to get the words out. Lydia remains silent, letting Stiles find the proper phrasing. “He _deserved_ it. I don’t know how to explain it, but I knew—I know that he deserved it. So… so I finished the job.”

 _Finished the job_ , there it is, again. Stiles’ way of expressing what he’s done. It intrigues Lydia, but also scares a certain part of her: murder as a means to an end, viewing the doling out of death as a transactional service. 

A tense silence falls over the group for a brief moment. Then, in a quick movement, Derek grabs Stiles and slams him up against a supporting pillar. Lydia gasps in shock and takes a reflexive step back. But… Derek doesn’t seem to be hurting Stiles, despite Stiles’ quick breaths of panic. From her spot, Lydia can see Derek’s eyes glow an ice cold blue; Stiles’ eyes shift into a burning gold in response. 

Like nothing even happened, Derek lets Stiles go, and the electric blue in his eyes disappears. 

“What the fuck, dude?!” Stiles says, eyes still glowing, as Derek takes a step back. 

“You’re right,” Derek says. “He deserved it.”

Lydia looks at the scene, trying to put the pieces of the equation together. 

_Eye color_ , Lydia mentally notes, _might matter?_ Her thoughts play on repeat, looping the images of the blood red eyes of the Alpha, the icy blue of Derek, and the fiery gold of Stiles. 

Stiles golden eyes fade away as he shakes his head at Derek. “I could’ve told you that. I did my research, like I always do. He was an insurance investigator for the fire. Y’know, _this_ fire.” Stiles gestures around with his hands, referring to the house around them. “Said it was an accident.”

“It wasn’t,” Derek grits out.

“We _know_ ,” both Lydia and Stiles simultaneously counter. They look at each other for a brief moment, and Lydia nods at Stiles.

Stiles continues, “We know. But that guy? Filed it as accidental.”

“Electrical malfunction,” Derek all but growls, “is what the police told us.”

“But you knew,” Lydia states. “You always knew.” 

The dark look Derek shoots her is more than enough for an answer. 

“Well, that dead piece of shit,” Stiles spits out with an angry gesture, “is the reason why the department dropped the case. You can’t investigate an arson if it’s not even arson to begin with.” 

“...How did you figure all of this out?” Derek asks with a wary glance between Lydia and Stiles.

Stiles continues, “I… I knew. I knew before I even killed him—I just—he was guilty. He had to be.” Stiles has a distant look to his eyes. He blinks and shakes his head slightly, something Lydia has seen him do countless times: a sign of Stiles dropping back into reality. “And it’s _preeetty_ easy to find somebody’s dirty laundry when you’re looking for it.”

Lydia shakes her head as she takes one, two steps closer to Derek. She’s almost invading his personal space when she says, “But that’s not the point. Stiles here _killed_ somebody. Now you—” She jabs Derek’s chest with a finger, and, _ow_? Is he made of rocks? “—tell us why.”

Derek looks down at the spot where she jabbed him, and then back up at Lydia, completely unimpressed.

“Stiles... made the right choice,” Derek says as he crosses his arms. “The Alpha would’ve killed him if he didn’t participate.”

“That’s—that’s not true,” Stiles quietly protests. 

Derek turns his direction to Stiles. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s you he wanted, and it’s you he has. You’re a part of his pack, now.” 

“His pack,” Lydia deadpans. “His werewolf pack. With murder as initiation.”

Derek gives a short nod in response. 

“Wait, a _part_ of?” Stiles questions. “Wha-what, so you’re telling me there’s others? Besides me?” 

Derek’s brows lower, as if he truly didn’t think that far. Finally, he says, “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t—“ Stiles echoes, a look of disbelief on his face. He glances over to Lydia, then back to Derek. “Okay. We need to find Mr. Big Bad Wolf, like, right now so I can ask him what the fuck is going on.”

“You’re assuming he’s cognizant and sane,” Derek adds.

“Sane? Definitely not. But cognizant? Let me tell you, allowing me kill that guy requires some serious activation of the prefrontal cortex.”

Well, someone has been doing their AP biology homework. Lydia’s glad that Stiles is currently managing to stay on top of his studies while also dealing with the entire werewolf situation. Idly, she wonders how long that’ll last. 

“Wait,” Lydia cuts in as she remembers Stiles’ amnesia, “are we going to completely glance over how Stiles doesn’t remember how he got there in the first place?”

“Alphas can also howl to summon their Betas,” Derek almost condescendingly explains. Lydia wants to throttle his neck.

“So,” Stiles says, “he can just teleport me like that?”

“It’s not—“ Derek cuts himself off with an eye roll, seemingly refusing to entertain Stiles. “It’s subconscious. He calls you in your sleep, you answer.”

“I feel like I should be worried.” Stiles looks at Lydia as his voice pitches upwards. “Should I be worried? I’m not, but, that’s definitely wrong, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Lydia responds, but quickly drifts off into thought. 

There are a ton of new variables on the table. Lydia considers the situation as a mathematical equation, as she’s wont to do. Stiles has insisted (with much force) that he didn’t feel like he was in danger around the Alpha. While the sleepwalking—subconscious response to the howl, whatever—is worrying, it’s not life or death. In fact, they could use that, right?

“Is that… bond between Alpha and Beta a two way street?” Lydia asks. 

“Only after initiation,” Derek confirms.

“Well,” Stiles says as he gestures to himself, “I’m initiated. One hundred percent concentrated initiation right here.”

Lydia nearly blanches at Stiles’ blasé attitude, but brushes it off. It’s _Stiles_ , after all.

“This is a good thing,” Derek remarks, and it’s almost like he’s trying to convince _himself_ of it, more than Lydia and Stiles.

 _This is not a good thing!_ , is what Lydia’s knee jerk reaction screeches. _In what world is murder a good thing?_

_In a world where justice has failed_ , the more logical side of her brain supplies.

She promptly tells that part of her brain to _stop being so dramatic_ and to _shut up already_.

What she finally says is: “You could use that bond, right? To find the Alpha?” 

“That,” Stiles says with a smile, “is the plan, Lydia-o-mine.” 

“Okay,” she airily says, “okay. This is a good thing.” 

This is a good thing because she doesn’t know what she’d do if she considered it otherwise. She knows that humans readily warp their conceptions of the world around them and seek bias-confirming information when confronted with cognitive dissonance, but she never expected herself to be a victim of the phenomenon. Yet, here Lydia was, letting herself see murder as a good thing (a greater good thing, to be specific). 

Should she be surprised? Probably, but she’s not. She wasn’t ever exactly _normal_ , not with intelligence and interests like hers, all hidden beneath flowery exteriors. She was born into a coffin, buried grave deep and grown over with marigolds. Maybe that’s why she’s able to accept this new reality she and Stiles have found themselves in. She’s already used to abnormality and existing outside the interquartile range. Always a statistical outlier, Lydia finds comfort in those like her. 

_Different_ and _exceptional_.

Stiles is different, and exceptional at times. Werewolves and werewolf hunters are certainly exceptionally different. And murder is _definitely_ different—maybe not exceptional, but one for two is good enough for her brain to cope with. 

“We can start tonight. I can teach you how to use your abilities,” Derek says, and Lydia blinks out of her daze as she looks at the two men in front of her again. 

“Tonight as in, later? Or tonight as in, right now?” Stiles asks. “‘Cause it’s a school night and I don’t know if you know this, but there’s a curfew—“

“Right now,” Derek confirms, and then looks at Lydia. “You can leave.”

Lydia blinks at that, before taking on a defensive tone and saying, “ _I_ can do whatever I want.” 

Stiles agrees with a smarmy smile. “Yeah, we’re kind of a package deal. Two for the price of one, y’know? Like conjoined twins without the conjoined part.”

“Fraternal twins,” Lydia remarks, “that are completely unrelated.” 

Stiles nods in her direction as he adds, “What she said.”

“I’ll be staying,” Lydia decides. “I _am_ his ride, after all,” She makes a show of it by twirling her keys around her finger. Oh yes, they took the Prius. 

“Fine,” Derek grits out, and then turns his complete attention to Stiles. 

In hindsight, Lydia wishes she would’ve left. 

It ends up being beyond boring to watch, considering most of the training consists of Stiles attempting to do what Derek’s telling him to and consistently failing. 

“Focus on the bond,” Derek would say, “and follow it.”

“I’m trying,” Stiles would retort, “but that’s kinda hard to do with you _hovering_ over my freaking shoulder.”

Rinse and repeat until the sun is fully set. Lydia retreats to the interior of the house, seeking refuge from the chilly night breeze that cuts through her cardigan like it’s nothing but decorative paper.

Maybe if she could feel what werewolves feel, connections and bonds and threads that tie a pack together, she would be much more interested. As is, she feels like she’s just an outsider observing something she could never understand. 

Instead, she’s alone and sitting on the bottom step of the staircase. Derek and Stiles’ voices are faintly seeping in from outside via the open front door, as are the ambient noises of the forest—crickets and the rustling of pine needles and oak leaves. 

An aching chill seeps up from her feet, firmly planted on the charred hardwood floor. It isn’t the cold of refrigerators and winter eves. It’s a freezing heat, burning so hot that it leaves nothing but numbness, nothing but cold. 

And it’s coming from below...

...the...

...floorboards.

It’s a family.

(Family, pack, bonds, foreign feelings that she—)

Trapped.

(—can’t understand. And here she is, captivated by the blinding light—)

Suffocating.

(—as a death’s head hawkmoth to the flame—)

 **Burning**.

(—both of them harbingers of death—)

 _Freezing_.

(—heralding, humming, chirping life’s final song—)

Long dead, dead, _dead_.

(—and the memory, branded into the very walls of the house, makes her want to _**scream**_.)

“Hey,” Stiles says, suddenly standing in front of her. Lydia blinks a few times, coming back to reality, and shifts her shoes around on the floor. As if that’ll make it easier to ignore the pain that lingers below. “I’m done for now. Yoda’s given up on me and we’ve got a curfew to worry about.”

Yoda? _Derek_. Yep, Lydia doesn’t have to ask if that makes her Leia: Stiles and her have been Luke and Leia ever since Halloween of 2006. Melissa makes a wonderful Padmé, and Sheriff Stilinski a hilarious Vader. 

Those thoughts are normal. 

She’s fine.

“Let’s go then,” Lydia responds with a smile that doesn’t exactly reach her eyes. She shoves the feelings of death back into the grave they crawled out of. 

Maybe she doesn’t mind murder because she’s long felt haunted by death. 

* * *

**BOOM**.

Stiles’ breath hitches as he looks up from his AP biology homework and towards his window. He can’t see anything in the darkness, but he can feel… he can feel a pull. It urges him to run into the woods and follow, follow, follow.

Oh, great. He couldn’t have felt this when he was actually trying to?

 **BOOM**.

He startles more, the second time it resounds. It’s thunder… _no_. 

It’s a shotgun blast. Stiles has gone skeet shooting with his father enough times to recognize the sound. It’s so distant, so damningly distant, yet it feels like he’s hearing it with his very own ears. The bond tugs at the edge of his mind, makes him want to close his eyes and shake his head until the persistent grip of the connection fades away. 

Stiles waits for a long time, holding his breath, but the feeling doesn’t fade. It only spreads into his chest, making his lungs burn.

Scratch that, the burning was coming from him holding his breath. Stiles gasps as oxygen flows into his body again, and debates with himself for a short moment. He gives in, ditching his homework. Stiles only bothers to grab a pair of Converse from the closet and his phone before he’s already unlatching his window, popping off the screen, and crawling out. 

Yes, the security of their house ensures people can’t get in, but it doesn’t prevent Stiles from getting _out_. Given how he’s on the ground floor, it’s always been exceptionally easy to sneak away. Stiles avoids the motion activated lights in the backyard, carefully taking a familiar path around the side of the house and to the residential street. With only one glance thrown back towards his home, he shakes his arms out, and begins to run.

Running, A Less Than Comprehensive And Extremely Opinionated Guide:

  * Running is annoying. It makes it really difficult to breathe, and being able to breathe is very important. Like, probably number one when it comes to being a human. Everybody likes breathing, just like how almost everyone likes water. In short: breathing>running.
  * With that said, why the fuck would anybody ever run? It’s like, self-inflicted torture. Yes, runner’s high, okay, whatever, but the pain you have to go through to get there in the first place? Not worth it. _Sooo_ not worth it. Only masochists actually like running.
  * Running long distances is even worse. Short sprints? Stiles can get behind that. It’s fun and wild, sprinting as fast as you can for, oh, a hundred or so meters. Don’t ask him to do it again, though, or he’ll start puking.
  * Therefore, the least enjoyable sport is cross country.
  * Despite this, Stiles is on the cross country team. _Still_ on the cross country team.
  * (Honestly, he was only on the team because it’s mandatory for lacrosse, but he quit lacrosse on an impulsive whim. He doesn’t truly regret it, not really. He loves lacrosse, and definitely spends some of his free time against the bounce back in the backyard, but he has an incredibly bad feeling about playing a contact sport. His control over his newly acquired abilities is fine—more than fine, if Derek’s confusion is anything to go on—but he’s not going to risk it all for some stupid high school sport.)
  * But, Stiles doesn’t hate cross country.
  * In fact, it might be the opposite. He’s… grown to—dare he actually fucking say—like running…? Sounds incredibly out of character, he knows, but he’s undergone some serious physiological changes that make the aforementioned Breathing While Running much easier than it ever was before. His lungs don’t give out. His legs don’t give out. Nothing. Gives. Out.
  * It’s like a never-ending hundred meter sprint. It’s like every stride he takes, impact echoing up his leg and into his chest, is his first. It isn’t running. It’s constant sprinting. 



And Stiles, like he already made clear, can really get behind sprinting.

Wind whistles in his ears as he bolts down the sidewalk, purely following his instinct and the nagging string in his mind. His startling fast pace has him exiting the suburbia of West Hills and sprinting south, running alongside the edge of the preserve and its towering evergreens. The night air bites against his exposed skin, and his face and arms feels flushed from the cold. The discomfort of not being in his running shoes, having to run in his jeans, and not wearing a long sleeve on a night as chilly as this one doesn’t even register in his mind. Stiles is sure that he could be _naked_ and still be fine. 

Probably.

The pull then ends up having him sprinting east, over a bridge that spans the East Hills River, and to the edge of the industrial district before it—

 _Snap_.

—disappears.

Stiles instantly stops, braking hard and fast within a few steps on the asphalt. His breaths are heavy, but in a way that only brings him satisfaction rather than exhaustion. There’s a tingling at the base of his skull, one he recognizes as an unscratchable itch at being unable to find the Alpha. He scratches the back of his neck, and it doesn’t help whatsoever.

 _Fuck_.

But before he can yell in frustration—

 **BANG**.

The noise shocks Stiles, and for a moment, he’s afraid he was shot. He pats down his chest and stomach, only to find, yes, he’s fine, there are no holes where there shouldn’t be. As for the noise: it isn’t a shotgun, but it’s _definitely_ some kind of big gun. Coming to his senses and realizing just how close the shot was to his location, Stiles bolts into the tree line that borders the river. Half of his brain is yelling at him ‘ _What the fuck are we doing?! Oh my God, go home! Run away! This isn’t our problem!_ ’ while the other half is whispering ‘ _Dude. We just_ gotta _check it out._ ’

Of course, Stiles listens to the latter. Hidden safely in the shadows, he moves towards the direction of the gunshot. As he does, a black SUV, a _familiar_ black SUV, rolls down the street, and Stiles is infinitely glad he chose to hide when he did. Its headlights illuminate the road more than the streetlights do, and Stiles quickens his pace to follow it. It finds him at the scene of one woman with a, a _sniper rifle_?! 

Oh God. 

She’s scanning the rooftops, but her attention quickly turns to the approaching car. Stiles has enough common sense to know that she’s probably a hunter. Or a hitman—hitwoman—assassin person. It’s like there’s a really big neon red sign that reads _DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!_ rotating over her head. In this case, she’s not the type of danger that Stiles runs straight into. 

This is a different kind of danger: the kind that can and will kill him, rather than just get him into trouble. There’s a difference between a bonfire and a wildfire. Stiles would know.

He completely hides his form behind a tree, not daring to peer out from behind it as he concentrates his hearing. Stiles manages to keep his breaths shallow and quiet at the cost of his claws and teeth making themselves known. He anxiously digs his claws into the bark, sending a mental apology to the innocent tree.

Stiles hears a window rolling down. Then: “ _Get in_ ,” says none other than Mr. Allison’s Dad, full name Christopher Argent. 

“ _What?_ ” replies the unknown-but-dangerous woman. “ _Not even a ‘Hello, nice to see you’?_ ”

“ _At the moment, all I’ve got is ‘Please put the assault rifle away before someone notices.’_ ”

“ _That’s the brother I love._ ”

Brother?

Shit. Stiles knows that Christopher Argent has a sister, (after all, he researched their entire family tree and currently has it taped up to his plexiglass board) but to know that there are two of them in town now, plus whoever Christopher’s usual hunting buddies are? And his wife, on top of that? Shit on a _stick_. What’s the sister’s name again…? Katelyn... Kathleen…

 _Katherine_. Katherine Argent.

Stiles hears Katherine Argent open a car door and slide in. Then, the car is driving off and he can’t hear them anymore.

That can’t be _it_.

Stiles’ face twists into an extremely conflicted grimace as he internally debates with himself. Moments later, he pulls his claws out of the tree and begins to run after the car. The SUV takes the road that snakes alongside the river, and Stiles keeps a comfortable distance. A turn takes them out of the industrial district and onto a highway, heading south out of town. Buildings quickly fade away to the outskirts of the Beacon Hills, where only miles and miles of trees stretch on until the next town. 

Shockingly, the SUV barely drives half a mile before it pulls to a stop on the two-lane highway, pulling off onto the shoulder where another car lies dormant. Stiles slows his pace and crouches down as he watches the Argent siblings get out and walk towards the car. Even from his distance, Stiles can see how the car is _messed_ up. 

Is this where the fight started? Where the Alpha, Stiles assumes, must’ve been? The scene certainly looks like the Alpha’s handiwork, all vengeful and violent.

“ _I know there are two. And one of them just attacked me,_ ” says Katherine. A moment later, she turns and looks at the trees around her. Observing. Analyzing. _Looking for something_. 

Before she can look in his direction, Stiles ducks behind another tree. He can hear his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears and feels nothing but the full body grip of flaming fear. 

“ _One of them is going to lead us to the other,_ ” Christopher notes with a slightly weary, slightly frustrated tone. “ _He can’t do that if he’s dead._ ”

“ _And I can’t help kill either of them if one of them kills me first,_ ” Katherine retorts, uncaring to her brother’s annoyance.

“ _How long will it take?_ ” Christopher asks. 

“ _I’d give him forty-eight hours,_ ” Katherine answers, and Stiles can hear the smile in her voice. His nose scrunches up in disgust. “ _If that._ ”

Stiles fills in the blanks, the missing context. Katherine’s final shot didn’t miss her mark. She _shot_ something, someone, and whoever that poor bastard is, he has…

Wait. She'd said that she knows there are two. The Alpha, whom Stiles came running for in the first place, and... _Derek_. Seeing how Stiles knows the Alpha disappeared before Katherine’s sniper shot echoed through the night, that only leaves Mr. Grumpy Pants as the possible victim with only…

Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_! He can’t lose his Yoda! Even if Derek holds the title of World’s Worst Yoda, he still can’t lose him. Yeah, Derek’s kind of (totally) an angry and mean guy at times, but… he’s got it rough, alright? Stiles wouldn’t wish death upon the dude. Hell, Derek had even called them brothers. Wolfy brothers in a werewolf pack, right? Even if Stiles doesn’t have one of those bond-whatevers with Derek, they’re still… pack? Or something? They’re working together. That’s gotta count for something. 

Stiles stays silent in the safety of the woods as he hears Katherine move all of her stuff (probably more guns and bullets than clothes) over to Christopher’s SUV. Only when they’ve driven away and are a comfortable quarter mile away, does Stiles pull out his phone. It’s screen lights up his face in the darkness, and he quickly clicks the call button under Derek’s contact.

It rings, rings, rings, and Stiles is only answered by a default voicemail greeting. He tries again, to no avail. The rock in Stiles’ stomach grows as he texts Derek. 

**[ Derek Wildstar ]**

_**DID U GET SHOT???** _  
_**ANSWER ASAP** _  
_**OR CALL** _  
_**IT’S IMPORTANT!!** _

Stiles anxiously sighs as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Then, he scratches the base of his skull he considers his next move. Before he can make any headway in his mental process, he remembers: 

Lydia has dinner with the Argents on Friday. Friday as in _tomorrow_ Friday.

Maybe, Stiles is in a bit over his head, and he’s dragging Lydia down with him. Maybe, just maybe, Stiles shouldn’t have Lydia try and gain information on the Argents when it’s so obvious just how dangerous they can be. Maybe… it’d be best if Lydia just keeps her love life and her friend life separate. Cut down on the overlap between Allison and Stiles. It’s only one more semester, then both Lydia and Allison graduate. He can survive until then, right?

 _Right_?

Fuck. He's fooling himself. 

He doesn’t want to survive, he wants to thrive. Stiles wants _in_ on Lydia’s life; they’re best friends and he doesn’t want to leave her to the wolves—well, actually, hunters. And Stiles is pretty sure that Lydia wants the same. Lydia fucking Martin wants to have her cake and eat it, and goddamnit, Stiles will do anything to ensure she gets what she wants. If she wants both Allison and Stiles, well, Stiles will play it safe and let her take the lead. In return, he knows she’ll help him and make sure he doesn’t end up dying at the end of a hunter’s blade, bullet, crossbow bolt, whatever.

Stiles can’t do this alone, but he can do this with Lydia. 

Energy revitalized, Stiles begins the run back home. His thoughts are moving just as fast as his legs, but the only anxiety left in his chest stems from Derek’s radio silence.

* * *

Stiles is exhausted the next morning, seeing how he had to stay up late to finish his homework, but ultimately unbothered. At least his dad didn’t realize he’d snuck out. 

The first bell rang a few minutes ago. Stiles rushes to his locker as the hallways clear out. The second bell is due any second now; their passing period isn’t _that_ long. That’s when he sees a very odd scene playing out at Jackson’s locker, about two dozen lockers down from his own. 

“I’ll find him myself,” Derek Hale growls out to an unintimidated Jackson Whittemore, and _Jesus_ , Derek looks terrible. Stiles changes his brisk walk into a slow jog as he approaches, holding tightly onto his backpack straps.

Derek turns to walk down the hall, but Jackson grabs him by the shoulder. “Hey, we’re not done—”

In a flash of movement that Stiles is more than familiar with, Derek grabs Jackson by the neck and _holy shit Derek is choking Jackson_ —

“Dude!” Stiles calls out as he now runs up to Derek; he doesn’t attack Derek, unsure what state of mind Derek actually is in. Then, in a rush, because he doesn’t know what else to say: “ _Oh my God_ , what are you doing?! Stop!”

Jackson gasps through his choking and tries to pry Derek’s fingers off, but the poor dude’s only human and doesn’t stand a chance. Derek’s sickly attention turns to Stiles, and then back to Jackson. Only then, does Derek seem to realize what he’s _doing_ , and releases Jackson. Free from Derek’s grasp, Jackson doubles over and begins to gulp in air like he’s never breathed before. Stiles’ own chest feels tight at the image. 

Derek is staring in shock at Jackson, and Stiles follows his gaze to Jackson’s bent over form. On the back of Jackson’s neck are puncture marks from Derek’s claws. Both Stiles and Derek look at Derek’s fingertips in alarm until the claws finally recede. 

“I was looking for you,” Derek says. 

“And you thought _Jackson_ was the right person to ask?!”

At that moment, the second bell rings, and Stiles is officially late for homeroom. Again. Whatever, this is more important. Curtis can shove it.

“You two know each other,” Derek explains. 

“Barely!”

“I couldn’t find Lydia,” Derek remarks, as if that’s a better excuse.

“Technology exists?” Stiles hisses, an anxious fury overtaking him. 

“I texted,” Derek replies with a dark look. “Lydia said she’s not your keeper and you didn’t answer. ” 

At that, Stiles flinches. He'd muted his notifications when he got in his car to drive to school, like he _always_ does. He pulls out his phone from his jeans pockets, unlocks it, and sure enough, there’s two texts from earlier this morning:

**[ Derek Wildstar ]**

_Yes. Where are you_  
_?_

The single question mark, oh, how Stiles hates it. “To be honest,” Stiles responds, “you didn’t immediately respond last night.”

Derek shoots Stiles a dark look.

“Look,” Stiles continues in his own defense, “Texting and driving is dangerous.”

Derek’s unimpressed expression remains. The dark bags underneath his eyes only add to the look. 

Stiles goes on: “Plus, I’ve already gotten detention four times and we—we haven’t reached spring break yet! You can’t blame me for keeping my phone muted at school.” 

The look Derek has on his face doesn’t change, and Stiles realizes that maybe… that’s just his default look right now. Hell, if Stiles just got shot, he’d probably have a resting bitch face, too.

“Yeah, wow, dude,” Stiles says, his brain-to-mouth filter completely absent, “you’re not looking too good.”

“I was _shot_ ,” Derek reiterates in disbelief at Stiles’ Captain Obvious observation. 

“He was shot?!” asks Jackson, who’s rubbing the back of his neck and has a look of disbelief plastered onto his face—and, _what_? That guy is _still_ here? Both Derek and Stiles look at him in bewilderment. Question: how do two werewolves fail to notice the presence of another person? Answer: one was shot, the other is Stiles. 

“What are you still doing here?!” Stiles squeaks. “Don’t you have class?”

“Yeah, and so do you!” Jackson counters. Stiles hums with a frown, _fair point_. Jackson directs his attention towards Derek when he, again, asks: “You were shot?!”

Derek groans and lets his weight fall against the lockers in response. He looks like a Victorian era maiden following the latest tuberculosis inspired fashion trends. That’s to say, he looks beyond pale, goth-adjacent, and like he’s definitely a hop and a skip away from death’s doorstep. 

“ _Hoooly_ fuck,” Jackson says in disbelief. Stiles gives the guy a ‘ _what the fuck, bro?_ ’ look before Stiles grabs Derek and begins to drag him away. Jackson is left at his locker in stunned silence.

“Should I get Lydia?” Stiles worriedly asks as he assists Derek down the empty hallway. “I feel like I should get Lydia.” Derek opens his eyes, and they flicker in and out of supernatural blue and their mundane hazel-green. Not good, definitely not good. “Yep, let’s get Lydia.”

Stiles utilizes some quick thinking, and directs Derek in the direction of the boys’ locker room. Stiles quietly opens the door, peering in and making sure that nobody else is in there, before pulling Derek in and settling him down on one of the benches. Derek sighs when he finally sits down and lets his head hang.

After dropping his backpack on the bench, Stiles formulates a text to Lydia.

**[ Lydia Deetz ]**

_**EMERGENCY!!** _  
_**Derek’s at school** _  
_**Yes he was the one that got shot** _  
_**We’re in the boys locker room** _  
_**Need ur help** _

Stiles anxiously paces as he waits for a response, clutching his phone like it’s a damn lifeline. His brain is moving so fast that he can’t even think of what question to ask first. Then, it comes to him:

“Are you okay?” 

Fucking _idiot_! Of course he’s not okay, what the fuck? He was _shot_ with some kind of poison or something, and he’s only got forty-eight hours ( _If that_ , Katherine Argent’s voice chimes in), and—

“No,” Derek replies, and yep, he definitely sounds pissed off. 

Thankfully, the doors to the locker room open and in comes the staccato clicks of Lydia Martin and her heeled boots. She rounds the corner to the row of lockers where Stiles and Derek are stationed. Stiles smiles in relief at her appearance, and notes the bathroom pass in her hand and her bag on her shoulder. Instantly, Stiles can see the excuse she pulled to get out of Curtis’ class: _lady problems_ , she needs to leave _right now, thank you_.

“You aren’t healing,” Lydia notes as she sets her bag next to Stiles'. “Tell us why.”

“I was shot with a different kind of bullet.”

“A silver bullet?” Stiles guesses, because that seems likely, right? Then, before Derek has the chance to call him an idiot, Stiles remembers: “W-w-wait, she said you only have forty-eight hours. Uh, Katherine Argent, the one that shot you. She said that.”

Derek flinches, and Stiles not sure what he’s exactly flinching at. The mention of just how little time he has, or the hunter?

“Katherine as in Kate?” Lydia asks. “Allison mentioned that her Aunt Kate got into town last night.”

“Definitely her,” Stiles confirms.

Derek sucks in a shaky breath as a wave of pain seems to roll through him. His eyes flicker blue again, and Stiles feels a pang of pity for the guy.

“I need you to find the same kind of bullet,” Derek manages to say through his pain. “I have to know what they used.”

Stiles slowly tilts his head at Lydia.

“I can do it,” Lydia solemnly says.

“ _You_ ,” Derek challenges, “can do it.”

“Well, yes, I am having dinner with the Argents tonight. I think I’m more than capable of finding one measly little bullet.”

“You—you’re having dinner with the Argents?” Derek asks, more perplexed than anything. 

Wait. 

Did they really forget to tell Derek about the Allison-Lydia situation? 

“Oh my God,” Stiles mutters, feeling like a massive airhead, and turns to face Lydia. “We forgot to tell him.”

Lydia purses her lips and blinks a few times before saying, “Better late than never.”

Stiles shakes his head at that. “Long story short,” he says to Derek, “Lydia is dating the daughter of Christopher Argent because she’s crazy.”

The best word to describe how Derek looks is defeated. However, he obviously doesn’t have enough extra energy to waste on a dilemma like that.

Lydia defends herself. “I didn’t know she was a hunter when—”

“You knew she was _something_ ,” Stiles snarks back.

“We’re not doing this right now. Derek’s been shot.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says with an eye roll as he turns to Derek, getting back on track. “What happens if Lydia can’t find your magic bullet? Will you die?”

“No,” Derek responds. “I have a last resort.”

“It better not be amputation,” Lydia mutters jokingly. 

At Derek’s blank expression and silence, both teens blanch. 

“Oh my G—” Stiles gags. “It’s amputation. Lydia,” Stiles turns to Lydia. “It’s amputation. Fuck. It isn’t contagious, right? Because, as cool as being a werewolf is, I would really prefer to keep all of my limbs attached.”

At that, Derek growls, and says, “I can make it contagious if you don’t shut up.”

“Alright!” Stiles says with a smile as he turns to Lydia. “You’re gonna get that bullet tonight.”

Stiles isn’t sure who he’d rather be in the situation: himself, or Lydia. Lydia has the pressure of finding the magic bullet, yes, but Stiles has the pressure of babysitting Derek. 

And today’s just getting started.

* * *

Lydia and Allison are going over their AP U.S. History study guide when, out of the blue, Allison says, “You look so pretty tonight.”

Objectively: yes. Lydia is wearing a navy blue belted fit dress that contrasts with her strawberry blonde hair perfectly. It flares out at the waist and elegantly ends right above her knees, covering her collarbones and her shoulders, with large golden buttons adorning the shoulder line. Her beachy waves are being held back in a neat half ponytail, and her choice of shoes come in the form of her tan, wedge ankle boots. It’s one of the most professional looks she has, yet it’s also extremely practical. The dress is comfortable and doesn’t reveal anything, and the wedges are her easiest to run in, if need be. 

Subjectively: also yes. No elaboration needed.

Then, Allison leans in and kisses Lydia. Lydia’s eyes are open when Allison’s soft lips contact her own. Allison pulls away with a dreamy smile on her face, and Lydia tilts her head with a confused smile on her face.

“Studying is awfully hard to do when the brain is flooding with phenylethylamine,” Lydia notes with a glance at the study guide.

“With _what_?” Allison asks through soft and breathy laughter.

“Nothing,” Lydia responds with a smile of her own, and then leans in to kiss Allison again. “You look pretty tonight, too,” Lydia responds when they pull away. 

It’s true: Allison is wearing a long-sleeved, flowy, white tunic over black stockings. Her silver bullet necklace is proudly worn outside of the tunic, and an assortment of wrist bangles gently clink against each other as she tucks a stray, dark hair behind her ear. 

“You’re the perfect Snow White,” Lydia says without realizing. 

Allison softly laughs again. “Does that make you my prince?”

“Maybe,” Lydia says with a shrug. “Or maybe we’re both Snow White.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Allison says with a small frown. “We’d both be frozen in time. Forever.” Allison thinks on it for a moment, and Lydia gives her the time. Eventually, Allison says, “I think you’re more like Sleeping Beauty.”

“And why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Allison says, her voice light and high. “I just feel like you’re waking up.”

The statement is both foreboding and romantic, and her heart flutters with anticipation. 

“Well, we’re screwed either way,” Lydia eventually decides.

“I guess so.” The resignation in Allison’s voice almost hurts to hear.

Lydia looks at her again, really, truly studies Allison this time. Finally, she comes to a conclusion. “Did you see that new Disney princess movie? I think it came out a year or two ago.”

“Yeah, I did,” Allison responds. 

“I think you’re more like her than anything. Rapunzel.”

“I don’t really have the hair,” Allison points out.

“I don’t think it’s about the hair,” Lydia clarifies. 

“...There really is something different about you.”

Lydia smiles coyly at that. “Well, I hope that’s a good thing.”

Allison frowns. “I don’t think you get it.”

“Explain away, Rapunzel.”

Allison shoots her a grin, but quickly settles down to find her words. “Everywhere I went, I had this plan: no dating until college. I always move too often. Flings were fine, but dating?” Allison pulls a face. “No way. But when I met you… it was different. I can’t explain it.”

Lydia smiles with her response, “I can. It’s the phenylethylamine.”

Allison giggles, and Lydia can’t help but smile wider. 

Then, her phone vibrates, and it vibrates again, and the moment is entirely lost as Allison suggests that Lydia check her phone. She makes sure the screen is hidden from Allison as she looks at the incoming notifications. 

**[ Stiles Stilinski ]**

_Find it yet?_  
_Derek’s not looking good_

“Just Stiles being Stiles,” Lydia notes. But, Stiles is right: she has to focus and find the bullet. Time for a change of topic: “Hey, by the way, why are you still unpacking?”

“I’m going to be leaving for college soon. I just… don’t want to get attached.”

“Yet…” Lydia trails off, and Allison flushes and looks down. Her insinuation is caught. “Let’s unpack a bit. Getting attached isn’t always a bad thing.” Lydia gets up, grabs a small, half unpacked box, and places it on top of Allison’s desk.

“And when it is?” Allison asks as she mirrors Lydia with a different box.

“I guess we roll with the punches.”

The two begin unpacking their respective boxes. Lydia pulls a few photos from the box; all of them are black and white, and seem to be attempts at an artistic form of photography.

“Aww, did you take these?” Lydia asks.

Allison glances over and cringes. “Back when I thought I could be a photographer.”

“Hmm,” Lydia hums as she looks over them. “I know the photographer for the lacrosse team. I could have him give you a few pointers. Sports photography is a bit different, but….”

“I stopped for a reason,” Allison quickly says. “I’m pretty terrible at it. Framing, lighting, you name it, I couldn’t get it right.” 

Lydia frowns at Allison, seeing how she believes that learning a skill is a process. 

Allison must sense Lydia’s disapproval, because she eventually shrugs, and amends, “But, I don’t know, maybe when we’re less swamped with homework?”

Lydia nods as her smile returns, knowing it’s as much as she’ll get from Allison today. She peers deeper into the box, as does Allison, and pulls out a watercolor painting.

Allison cringes again. “That’s when I tried painting. Terrible at that too.”

Lydia only raises an eyebrow as she shifts the items around in the box more, and produces a journal. She doubts any of the boxes in Allison’s room would have the bullet that Derek needs. 

“I wouldn’t open that if I were you,” Allison notes, even though Lydia’s attention is far away from the journal. “That’s from my year of attempted poetry. Terrible doesn’t even come close to describing _that_.”

“You know,” Lydia finally says, “I’m sure if you gave these more of a try, you’d be good at all of them.”

“I mean,” Allison shrugs, “I know. I just… put all of my time into something else.”

“And that something else would be…?”

_Please don’t say shooting, please don’t say shooting, please don’t say shooting…_

“I’ll show you if you promise not to laugh.”

“I would _never_ ,” Lydia half-jokingly replies. 

Allison takes her hand and leads her out of her room, downstairs, and into the garage. Lydia’s heart rate raises with each step. Allison flicks on the garage light and leads her around the parked SUV’s, to the other side of the garage. Lydia lets her gaze flutter around as she looks for different areas of where bullets could be stored. 

Reaching their destination, Lydia notices a caged wall. Behind it hangs an assortment of shotguns, rifles, pistols, revolvers, tactical knives, and weapons that Lydia doesn’t even have a name for. It’s an armory; goosebumps rise on her bare arms and she isn’t sure why. Lydia blinks, quickly notices the lack of bullets, and returns her attention to Allison. The brunette clicks open a wooden case and produces a compound bow out of it. 

_Okay_. Not a gun.

It’s a bit archaic (barbaric, Stiles would say), but okay. 

“Archery,” Lydia hums. “I can see it. You definitely have the shoulders.”

“A lot of training for that. I was actually nationally ranked, back when I competed. But…”

“You gave it up,” Lydia guesses, seeing the trend.

Allison dodges the statement. “My dad wanted me to keep going, maybe go to the Olympics, but… I ended up going into the family business instead.”

 _I ended up becoming a hunter_ , is what Lydia gets out of that. Allison puts the bow away, but is far too familiar with it for Lydia to believe that she hasn’t used it recently.

“Let me guess,” Lydia says, and then points a finger at the wall of guns. “Argent Arms International?”

“What—yeah! How’d you know?” Allison asks, both curious and wary. “I mean, uh, besides the last name and all.”

“I think I should know that one of the biggest federally-licensed firearms dealerships operates out of Beacon Hills.”

“You should?” Allison asks. “Most people don’t.”

“Haven't we already established that I’m not really like most people?” Lydia retorts as she takes a step closer to Allison

“I guess we have,” Allison replies as she mirrors Lydia, and the two are mere inches away from kissing again when—

The garage door loudly turns on and clatters open. Allison takes a quick step backwards, but Lydia calmly remains where she is. Nervously, Allison takes her hand and leads her around the corner to where another SUV has pulled into the garage. 

“Welcome back,” Allison greets as her father and aunt step out of the car. Allison begins to walk around the edge of the garage to help with carrying in the groceries for tonight's dinner, but Lydia lingers around Kate before moving. 

“Lydia Martin,” Lydia greets, offering her hand to shake. Kate takes a few steps forward and shakes her hand: strong, almost painful. Kate is almost haloed by the caged off guns behind her.

Stiles and Derek were right. She’s dangerous.

“So you’re the girl that turned my niece gay,” Kate jovially responds. “I mean that in a good way.”

Lydia plasters on her signature fake smile as she forges through. She notices Allison and her father (Mr. Argent, Lydia has met before) taking in the groceries out of the corner of her eye. And she’s all alone with Kate. The garage is quiet, and Lydia tamps down an urge to scream, if only to break the deafening silence.

“Thank you,” Lydia replies. “Allison hasn’t said much about you.” 

In fact, Allison hasn't said anything at all. So far, she'd only said ‘ _My Aunt Kate got into town last night_ ’ in a tone that suggested she was far from happy about her aunt’s appearance.

Kate barks a short laugh at that. “I’m shocked! Allison’s like the little sister I never had. We’re really close.” And why does Lydia doubt that? “I’ve got tons of stories to share over dinner.”

Lydia tilts her head with her continued smile. “I can’t wait.”

* * *

Stiles looks at the long list of messages he’s already sent while waiting for Lydia's response, and sends a few more.

**[ Lydia Deetz ]**

**_It’s getting worse_ **  
**_Lydia_ **  
**_CALL ME!!_ **  
**_Or at least TEXT BACK!!_ **

Derek is standing in front of Stiles’ murder board looking like he’s going to keel over any second now. Stiles has tried to spend the past few hours doing his homework, but having a dying werewolf in his room isn’t really conducive to a good studying environment. The sound of Derek’s heartbeat: jackrabbit fast. Derek’s breaths: too shallow. Derek’s smell: death of the rapidly approaching variety. 

Thank God Stiles doesn’t have one of those pack-connection-bond-things with Derek, otherwise, he’d probably be freaking the fuck out. Instead, he’s only… freaking the _hell_ out. 

“You’re… good at this,” Derek mutters while staring at the board, voice seven shades too rough for Stiles’ sanity. 

“The research stuff? Yeah, kinda my thing.” Stiles’ leg bounces uncontrollably with anxiety as he's sitting down at his desk chair. He wants to pace, but he also doesn’t want to annoy Derek. Because, as much as he believes that Lydia will be able to find the bullet, a small part of his brain is also whispering ‘ _These could be Derek’s final hours._ ’ 

Honestly, even Stiles wouldn’t want to spend his final hours with himself. He’s never been known for his bedside manners, even when it was his own mom sick in the hospital. And if _that_ doesn’t dredge up some dreadful memories… _yeesh_. Yeah, Lydia needs to get a move on.

**[ Lydia Deetz ]**

_**I don’t want him to die in my room!!** _  
_**He’ll haunt me!!** _  
_**HAUNT ME!!!!!** _

That should get her attention.

Derek hums, a short sound of agreement. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s in response to what they were talking about a few minutes ago (and Derek’s brain is lagging really bad), or if Derek is agreeing with whatever he’s currently reading on the board. 

“Revenge,” Derek says, and his form sways. Stiles sits up straight, ready to stand and catch Derek, but he manages to keep his balance.

“Yeah, revenge. It’s what I, uh, felt. At the… uhh… bus...” Stiles trails off, not wanting to finish the damning statement. 

“It’s what…” Derek starts, but begins to sway again before he can finish.

“Dude, sit _down_ ,” Stiles cuts in as he grabs the other desk chair and wheels it over to Derek. 

Derek halts the movement of the chair and promptly takes a seat. Then, he takes off his jacket and lets it drop to the floor. The smell—which is like if somebody mixed together some really poor quality, burnt coffee grounds and a decomposing corpse in a compost bin—grows tenfold and Stiles gags once, twice. Then, he looks at Derek’s arm: it isn’t actively bleeding, but it looks like it’s… slowly oozing a sickening yellow something. His veins darkly branch outwards from the wound. 

“Well,” Stiles says, “that doesn’t look like anything Mrs. Martin’s essential oils can’t take care of.” 

Stiles cracks an uneasy smile. Nobody laughs. 

“It’s what the Alpha felt,” is what Derek eventually says. 

“Pretty sure the Alpha isn’t using essential oils,” Stiles immediately responds before remembering their previous topic. “Oh, yeah. Revenge. That… that makes sense.” 

In fact, it makes so much sense that Stiles feels like a damn idiot for not putting it together earlier. He blames Derek, as bad of a teacher he is. 

Derek groans and leans back in the chair, letting his head drop back and his eyes close as he mutters, “No. It makes no sense.”

“I mean, not really? I mean, like, you said we have that Alpha-Beta connection.”

“No.”

“No?”

Derek inhales, shakily, lets his head fall forward again as he exhales. “No.”

“ _Oookay_.” Like he made clear earlier, this is why Derek is a bad Yoda. Stiles begins to spin himself around on his chair. “Feel free to share with the class whenever you feel like it, I guess.”

Derek is quiet for a few long moments, but eventually says, “You shouldn’t have been able to… feel that.”

Stiles uses a foot to stop his spinning, and is slightly dizzy when he asks, “Really? I’m just chock full of fun surprises.”

“ _Fun_ ,” Derek grits out.

“Yeah, fun. Bite me,” Stiles retorts. “Oh wait, the Alpha beat you to it.”

Derek huffs, and Stiles can sense the eyeroll despite Derek’s back being turned to him.

Silence falls over them for long enough that Stiles considers returning to his attempt at completing his homework (emphasis on attempt). The studying never ends, and he’d be a dumbass to not use every moment of free time to stay on top of his schoolwork. But, Derek uses his good arm to vaguely gesture to the board, and begins to talk again.

“My sister,” Derek says, voice tight, “was lured here. By a symbol.” 

Derek weakly stands, grabs a dry erase marker from Stiles’ desk, and begins to draw on a free spot in the middle section of the board. It’s a simple spiral—nothing more, nothing less. 

“Among werewolves,” Derek clarifies, “it’s a sign for a vendetta. For revenge. She thought… I don’t know what she thought.” Derek sighs, weary beyond his years. “It doesn't matter. The Alpha killed her.”

 _The Alpha killed her_ , resounds in Stiles’ brain. Yes, he knew, but he had almost… forgotten. An oversight because of his bias towards the werewolf that bit him—because he could (sometimes) feel what the Alpha felt. Stiles even believes that he could understand those feelings if he manages to put the puzzle pieces together. Looks at it all in a certain light. 

Stiles chews on the cap of his pen and wonders how Laura Hale fits into this story. 

A flurry of possibilities jump into his mind, but only one sticks out in particular. Only one that would fit the theory. He chews harder on the cap to keep himself from immediately blurting it out. It’d be a death sentence to voice an idea like that around Derek. Stiles would need evidence, first, in order to learn if the theory holds some weight. It’s rude to speak ill of the dead, after all. 

Instead, he says something almost equally rude: “She could’ve been collateral damage?” Stiles continues before Derek can rip his head off, “I mean, I just—I _know_ what I felt. What the Alpha felt. It just... wouldn’t make sense for him to go after her.”

“No,” Derek insists. “The symbol was deliberate. The _lure_ was deliberate. The Alpha wanted her here.” 

“...Look, we’ll figure it out,” Stiles quietly settles on. “I’ll find the Alpha and we can both get our answers.”

“Answers?” Derek questions through an obvious wave of pain. “I don’t want answers. I want him dead.”

“Dead?” Stiles echoes with a tight voice. “As in _dead_ dead?”

Derek doesn’t seem to feel the need to respond. He stares, resolutely, at the board instead. He’s already decided. 

Stiles recalls Laura Hale’s grave, with wolfsbane and a spiral surrounding it. A mark of revenge.

Yep, Derek’s definitely talking about the _dead_ dead variety. 

The idea makes Stiles feel all different kinds of wrong, and he’s unsure as to why. 

Maybe, just maybe, Stiles should keep his investigations to himself and Lydia from here on forth. 

* * *

“You want something other than water, Lydia?” Mrs. Victoria Argent asks as she takes a seat at the head of the table. Lydia sees the scheme from a mile away. 

She smiles as she says, “I’m fine, thank you.”

“We could get you a beer,” Mr. Argent offers, and Lydia sees Kate roll her eyes. Allison is tense beside her. At Lydia’s silence, Mr. Argent continues, “Maybe a shot of tequila?”

“Like I said,” Lydia reiterates, “Water’s fine, unless you’re hiding some strawberry limeade.” 

“That, we aren’t,” Mr. Argent replies. He gives her a thoughtful look before saying, “I’ve heard you host quite the parties. With alcohol.” 

“Here we go,” Kate mutters underneath her breath. 

Lydia holds her eye contact with Mr. Argent. “Legal adults are allowed to drink at my parties. We’re allowed to go to war and star in pornographic films—“ Mrs. Argent looks appalled, Kate looks entertained, and Allison is holding her breath. “—at eighteen, but we aren’t allowed to drink alcohol?” Kate frowns with a lift of her eyebrows, almost approving, much to everyone’s displeasure. “Besides, making alcohol less forbidden to teens means they’re less likely to develop an alcohol use disorder once they head off to college. So, yes, I host parties with alcohol. It’s fine in moderation.”

“And supervision,” Mr. Argent adds. 

“We never learn for ourselves if we’re constantly supervised,” Lydia counters with a cheeky smile. “But I think living across from the _Sheriff_ is more than enough in terms of supervision.” 

Mr. Argent doesn’t look happy with her answers, but he nods, and briefly changes topics. 

“So, I take it you know the Sheriff well?” he asks. 

Lydia’s smile tightens imperceptibly. “Yes.”

“I won’t lie,” Mr. Argent admits, “I only met him once, and that was back when he was still a deputy. Noah Stilinski, right?”

“The one and only,” Lydia confirms, unsure and wary of wherever Mr. Argent is taking the conversation.

“Seems to be a good man. Interesting family, though,” Mr. Argent notes with a weird tone of voice. Lydia has a feeling that by interesting, Mr. Argent truly means _odd_. 

“Dad—” Allison starts, but is promptly cut off. 

“Oh!” Kate interrupts with a grin on her face. “I’ve actually met one of them. Cute brown eyes, floppy hair, on the quiet side? Introduced himself as _Scott_.” 

Lydia’s blood runs cold at the casual mention of Scott, but her façade is unwavering as she says, “That’s him.”

“Such a _sweetie_ ,” Kate coos. “He doesn’t exactly look like the Sheriff, does he?” 

Lydia momentarily looks down at her still untouched plate and wonders if she’ll ever get a chance to eat. It’s more of an interrogation, and less of a dinner. Then again, she was expecting this. 

“No,” Lydia agrees. “He’s Melissa’s son.” 

“The Sheriff’s wife,” Mrs. Argent notes with a hum. “I’ve met her.”

Kate raises her eyebrows and smiles, but doesn’t say anything as she takes another bite of dinner. Allison is silently eating, and Mr. Argent gives his wife a thoughtful frown. Seems like communication isn't always perfect within the Argent family.

Lydia picks up the conversation with ease. “Melissa’s a great woman. Balances the whole work and family thing better than most.”

“And you know her well?” Mrs. Argent challenges.

“Seeing how her stepson is my best friend, I’d hope so.” Lydia’s nerves calm slightly, seeing how the Argents truly don’t seem to know as much as she assumed they might know. “She’s like a second mother to me.”

“She makes these _really_ good cinnamon fritters,” Allison adds to the testimony. “Stiles and Scott sometimes bring them for lunch, and…” Allison trails off as she notices her mother’s slightly icy glare. “They’re good,” she quietly tacks on, and quickly returns to her attention to her plate.

“The cinnamon fritters have nothing on the coffee cake Stiles makes,” Lydia adds to the friendly conversation. “It’s a family recipe that he guards with his life.”

“Family is important,” Mr. Argent notes.

 _Of course you’d say that_ , is what Lydia thinks. What she says is: “Your family business must make family even more important. Argent Arms is an impressive dealership.” 

Mr. Argent furrows his brows, and slightly smiles—his first of the night. His look is almost curious, like he isn’t sure what game Lydia is playing at. Kate, on the other hand, looks like she never stops playing whatever fucked up game she views the world as. Mrs. Argent hides her expression better, her true personality hidden beneath layers of false fronts; Lydia can relate. Allison remains quiet, the dutiful daughter she acts to be.

“Well,” Mr. Argent eventually says, “we do good work when we can.”

The table falls quiet, and Lydia gets an opportunity to start eating. She makes some polite comments on the meal, but mostly takes the lull in conversation to reevaluate the situation and take note of everyone around the table. 

Mr. Argent’s double-edged statement gives Lydia a clearer, if a little concerning, look into his headspace. She can only wonder which of the three figures Allison takes after most: militant mom, diligent dad, or the aunt with ASPD.

Out of curiosity, Lydia glances at Kate, only to find that—

Kate is already looking at her: analytical and too curious for Lydia’s comfort. Lydia averts her gaze, looking down at the food as she thoughtfully cuts another piece. 

Lydia trusts her intuition. Stiles was right to warn her of just how dangerous Kate Argent seems. 

Then, out of the blue: “Who will you be voting for?” Mr. Argent asks. The abruptness of his tone shocks the entire table. 

“Okay,” Kate cuts in with a nearly apologetic glance towards Lydia. “Changing the channel to a different can of worms… Allison mentioned you’re heading to MIT next fall.”

Lydia sits up straighter, and falls right into the easier topic of conversation.

College, unlike most of her peers, doesn’t stress her out. In fact, she sees it as one stepping stone of many in her pursuit of knowledge. The only downside of college is being far away from her family—and by that, she means Stiles. 

If that doesn’t say a lot about the true state of Lydia’s emotional connections to others, including her own mother… well.

Between small bites of food, Lydia carries the small talk alongside Kate and her ever-persistent questions. Lydia’s barely able to ask questions of her own, and is consistently backed into a conversational corner. 

Maybe today isn’t a good day to play Nancy Drew. After all, she’s on a tight schedule. 

When the focus is off Lydia for a moment, with Kate and Victoria discussing the state of Beacon Hills High, Lydia leans over and asks Allison where the nearest bathroom is. Allison, unimaginably unsuspecting or unbelievably intelligent, tells her about the bathroom in the guest room down the hall. 

It’s, truly, the first few minutes that Lydia has to herself, but it’s far from a breath of fresh air. 

The moment she opens the guest bedroom, she blinks, rapidly. A shiver overtakes her body and she resists the urge to chatter her teeth. The sensations fade as she settles and walks into the room, but they remain just below the surface. 

One step takes her closer to an unsuspecting, closed suitcase. 

And… she… 

She doesn’t have words for it, but whatever is in that suitcase feels just as haunted as the Hale House. 

Quickly and quietly, Lydia zips opens the bag. Within it: Kate’s belongings, mostly, but also a sleek ammunition case. Lydia’s fingers trail over it, and the goosebumps return in full force. Forcing down the feelings of unease, she opens the case. 

Instantly, Lydia’s gaze travels to one bullet in particular, and she isn’t exactly sure how she knows that this metal shell of death is the right one. All she knows is that, as she considers the gravitational bullet in question, she feels… she feels… 

...a great sense of foreboding. 

And yet, the moment she plucks the bullet from its spot, effectively removing it from whatever previous path it was planned for, the feeling dissipates.

Lydia closes the case and zips the bag shut, hides the bullet within her bra, and then moves to the bathroom and flushes the toilet for the sake of appearance. She briefly checks her phone, and finds a plethora of messages from Stiles. She ignores the majority of them and, instead, sends an update of her own. 

**[ Stiles Stilinski ]**

_**Found it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.** _

_HURRY!!!!!!!!!!_

She turns off the notifications for their text conversation again, and looks up. Lydia catches her reflection, and for a brief moment, she doesn’t recognize the person in the mirror. It feels like the young woman staring back is more ghost than human. 

Then again, that’s nothing new for Lydia Martin. 

* * *

“Burn it out?” Stiles squeaks, and Lydia can clearly see the fear flicker across his face. Both of them are hovering at the door frame, peering in at a shirtless Derek with nervous anticipation. “Like, with fire?” 

Derek, who’s on the verge of passing out, only responds with a grunt as he bites the bullet open and pours its contents out onto the granite countertop of Stiles’ bathroom vanity. A moment later, Derek produces a lighter from his pocket and flicks it.

Stiles, eyes glowing golden, tries to warn Derek of something. “Wait, don’t—”

But, Derek holds the flame to the bullet’s contents before Stiles can get out whatever it is he wants to say. A small fire forms, and as Derek waits for the flames to die down—

The fire alarm in Stiles’ room starts blaring out a high-pitched beeping. Stiles holds his hands to his ears, eyes still unnaturally glowing, and Lydia scrunches her nose at the noise.

Of course, Derek is numb to the outside world, and continues doing whatever he’s doing (shoving the burning embers and ashes into his wound, and, wow, that’s _gross_ , even for Lydia’s standards). Stiles, however, is freaking out due to the noise. Lydia seems to be the only one of the group who has her stuff together. 

“Where is, where is, where is…” Stiles mutters underneath his breath as he scans his room, hands still pressed to his ears. Then: “ _A-ha_!” 

Stiles bounds across his room, stray papers crunching underneath his socks-covered feet, and grabs his lacrosse stick from behind his laundry hamper. He winces as he has to expose his ears to the full force of the noise, but promptly uses the lacrosse stick to reach the ceiling and press a button on the fire alarm. It takes a few presses of the stick’s end cap, but eventually, it hits its mark, and the noise ceases.

Judging from Stiles’ response, Lydia has a feeling that this is far from the first time the fire alarm has gone off. She turns her attention to Derek again, only to find that he’s on the tile floor and slumped against the wall. His wound is miraculously healed, and he looks utterly relieved, if extremely exhausted. 

“Okay. I’ve had my fill of stress tonight,” Lydia states as she looks between the two werewolves. “And I think the same goes for the two of you.”

“Definitely,” Stiles agrees as he tosses his lacrosse stick across the room and flops down on his bed. “I don’t know if you can smell it, but, oh my _God_ —”

“Oh, no,” Lydia assures Stiles, “it definitely smells like something curled up and died in here. I’m cracking the window.”

“My hero.”

With a smile, Lydia walks over and opens the window. A light breeze immediately carries in fresh, cool air. Lydia notices how the screen is still absent from Stiles’ previous outing. She sincerely hopes another incident like this one won’t happen for a while, but with their track record… well. Let’s just say she isn’t going to waste time crossing her fingers.

“The Argents,” Lydia hears Derek say, and looks over to see him leaning against the bathroom door frame. He’s still unbelievably pale, but he looks exceptionally better than just a few minutes ago. “You need to be careful around them.”

“What—you’re already all healed?!” Stiles says as he sits up on the bed. 

Lydia ignores Stiles. “Tell us something we don’t know,” she responds to Derek.

“They’re dangerous,” Derek continues.

Lydia gestures to the murder board and gives Derek a flat look. He flicks his gaze between Stiles and her, seemingly confused.

“You’re dating one,” Derek says, almost as if he’s reminding himself.

“Yes,” Lydia responds.

“...You know what they can do.”

“ _Obviously_.”

The only expression Derek can seemingly muster is something that’s nearly disgusted.

“I missed the awesome magic healing…?” Stiles sadly mutters. Then, he seems to snap back into the present as he says, “Wait, Derek, dude, the Argents can be like... a _keep your enemies closer_ situation. I mean, if Lydia wasn’t dating Allison, then you’d probably be dead right now. Or, like, down an arm.” Stiles seems disgusted at whatever mental image he must’ve produced, and then continues, “Anyway, Lydia’s human. They wouldn’t hurt her.”

Derek closes his eyes and tensely exhales through his nose. When he reopens them, he’s staring intently at Lydia.

The room is deathly silent when Derek both warns and reveals, “That didn’t stop them before.”

Stiles and Lydia go still. Then, carefully, Stiles interprets, “...There were humans in the fire?”

Derek’s dark and mournful stare says it all.

The smell of smoke drifts into Lydia’s mind, and she can’t tell if it’s from the fire Derek set earlier or a psychosomatic response to the revelation. 

“They don’t suspect me,” Lydia tries to assure. 

“Yet,” Derek bites out. 

And that’s it, isn’t it? _Yet_. Lydia feels like Stiles—playing with fire. The Argents are another arson waiting to happen. Lydia would do best to stay away, but the danger draws her nearer. Death is in the forecast, and Lydia only hopes that it doesn’t have her, Stiles, Allison, or Derek on the radar. 

Then again, if Allison has her bow trained on her best friend, will Lydia be able to retaliate? 

_Yes_ , she tells herself, _of course_. 

And as always, a starkly realistic part of herself counters, asking in its fear, _And give Allison a reason to turn her bow on you?_

Before she can voice any of her worries, both Stiles and Derek go still. Distantly, Lydia hears the front door close shut. 

“Scott’s home,” Stiles announces. 

Derek glances between Lydia and Stiles, and seems to decide that he doesn’t exactly want to be here anymore. He swiftly dons his shirt and jacket, and is pulling himself through the open window before either of them can protest him leaving.

“Tomorrow,” Derek says once he’s outside, “eight AM.”

“Wh—” Stiles sputters as he pokes his head out the window, whisper-yelling as Derek stealthily leaves, “ _Dude_! I wanna sleep in!” 

“Nine AM,” Derek uncaringly calls over his shoulder. Then, he’s around the corner of the house and gone, joining the darkness.

Lydia crosses her arms and shifts her weight as she watches Stiles come to terms with having to wake up early on the weekend. She doesn’t mind, seeing how she’ll be up at sunrise either way. Then, a light knock sounds at the bedroom door. 

Stiles’ eyes go wide as he looks at the murder board, and gestures at Lydia to help him move it into his closet. With a sigh, Lydia obliges. It’s not like they can tear down all of the other papers on Stiles’ wall. Hiding the board only hides the connection of evidence to the Hale and Argent families. Stiles and Scott may be friendly ( _brothers_ , Lydia upsettingly reminds herself), but she and Stiles have silently agreed to keep this entire situation under wraps. Scott doesn’t need to know. 

Faking casualness, Stiles runs a hand through his hair when he opens the door and nervously greets, “Hey, Scotty-bro, what’s up?”

Scott’s eyes flick over Stiles’ shoulder as he seems to notice Lydia’s presence. “Not much. I just—I mean, you’re busy, so—”

“What? Nah!” Stiles assures as he quickly glances back at Lydia. “I mean, Lydia’s always here, we’re not busy, just—”

“We just finished,” Lydia says as she picks up her bag from the floor. “Tomorrow?” Lydia questions with a raise of her brows.

“Bright and early,” Stiles begrudgingly confirms, and moves to let Lydia out of the room. 

“What are you two doing tomorrow?” Scott asks hesitantly as she adjusts her bag on her shoulder. 

“Oh, you know—” Stiles tries to start.

“We have a session with a personal trainer,” Lydia supplies. 

Stiles blinks. Then, promptly adds on, “Good ol’ morning workout, you know how it is." He gives Scott a clap on the shoulder. Scott winces.

“Oh, that’s cool,” Scott says with an uneasy smile as he rubs his shoulder. “Do… do you think I could tag along?” 

Lydia opens her mouth to respond, a fake smile plastered on her face, but quickly snaps it shut and directs her smile towards Stiles. It’s his turn to come up with an excuse. 

“ _Ahh_ , I don’t know?” Stiles nervously responds. “It’s buns early dude, I don’t think you’d really wanna—”

“I already wake up super early,” Scott insists with a grin. “It's not a big deal.” 

Stiles’ brain seems to halt for a moment, his mouth stopped mid-word, before he continues, “Your asthma?”

“If I can survive cross country and lacrosse practice, I think I can survive a workout.”

“Yeah, but our workouts are, like, on a whole different level than that,” Stiles insists. Lydia holds back a snicker; it’s almost the actual truth.

“What, is it like CrossFit? ‘Cause I can do CrossFit. I did it back in D.C,” Scott explains. Before either of them can counter, Scott quickly continues, “I mean, as long as I have my inhaler, I should be fine. And I can always tap out, right?”

“Uhhh,” Stiles stalls. “...I guess so?”

“I mean, unless it’s like, a you-two thing…?” Scott trails off as he looks between Lydia and Stiles.

“No, bro—”

“Yes,” Lydia icily responds, “it is.”

Stiles looks between her and Scott, before begrudgingly agreeing, “Yeah, it kinda is. I mean, I’m down to workout with you, like, any other time?”

“Oh, yeah,” Scott says with a subdued smile. “Sure. Well, I’ve got homework, so… I guess I'll see you around, Lydia?”

Lydia gives a wave as Scott begins retreating down the hall to his room, “Goodnight.” 

“I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready!” Stiles calls out as Scott closes the door to his room.

Only once Scott’s door has clicked shut, does Stiles exhale and quietly say, “Wow, I feel like a grade-A douchebag. Jackson levels of douchebaggery.”

“You're definitely not there yet,” Lydia deadpans.

“Feels like it," Stiles mutters. "Like, I keep telling him we’re gonna hang out, or just, do stuff together, but it keeps falling apart.”

“Well,” Lydia starts, “once you figure out that Alpha of yours, I’m sure things will quiet down, and you and Scott can make up for all the lost time. I mean, what, don’t you guys just play video games and eat microwaveable food?”

“No!” Stiles protests in a whisper-yell. “I mean, yeah, but, no? Look,” Stiles shakes his head and whispers even more quietly, “I just… I think he had it pretty rough back in D.C., okay? I wanna be there for him.”

‘ _I couldn’t be there for him all these years_ ,’ goes unspoken, but Lydia catches it nevertheless. 

“It seems like you already are,” Lydia tries to console. Stiles mutters something that sounds like _not really_ , and Lydia continues, “You shouldn't beat yourself up over it.”

Stiles sighs and rubs his eyes. “Yeah. Look, I’m pretty beat, you must be too, and—and I think all this stress is just, hitting me, so…”

“Tell me about it,” Lydia dryly remarks. “I had to deal with Allison's family for three hours straight.”

“And I had babysit Mr. Tall, Dark, and Snarky. While he was dying.”

“Allison’s dad asked me who I'm voting for.”

“My room literally smells like death.”

“I had to hold _multiple_ conversations with her psychotic aunt.”

“Is she as bad as she seems? Like, she’s freaky, right? I swear, I got the worst vibes from her and I’m usually pretty good with the whole gut feeling—”

“Nothing she said was extremely terrible, but…”

“Just a bad feeling?”

“A very, very bad feeling.”

If only somebody, anybody had the legal proof to back it up. 

When Lydia ends up falling asleep that night, she dreams of running, leaving a golden blazing trail behind as she tries to escape blue sorrows (unable to breathe, unable to give words to unspoken horrors) and catching second place, biting a silver medallion on an Olympic podium made of brimstone, all while a stadium of red eyes watch on in approval. She hears a distant scream, and wakes up long before sunrise with one of her own caught in her throat.

Without another thought, she grabs her prescription bottle from the nightstand drawer and dry swallows a pill.

Stiles isn’t the only teen in Beacon Hills who’s had a psychiatrist since childhood, after all.

* * *

Across the street, Stiles is unable to find sleep, still haunted by the drag of his claws against the flesh of a guilty neck. 

He knows the location of every single fire source in the house (four, if he counts the firepit by the pool outside). That isn’t saying much, seeing how there’s only three, but Stiles is hyper aware of it. They have electric stove tops for a reason. 

In one of the many kitchen drawers resides a lighter stick and a matchbox. Said drawer is far away from the more commonly used utensils, knives, and placemats drawers. Stiles never opens it; it’s reserved for his dad’s rare barbecue days. 

The third source is in Stiles' closet. Tucked away on a high shelf lays a box of memories and heartache. It’s a box that used to give him panic attacks upon opening it. Nowadays, it only causes the familiar bittersweet ache of grief in his chest. Within the box are other small boxes, various bags, and a few loose items. It ranges from photographs to jewelry to trinkets, and all of them are his mother’s. It’s his now, he’s long supposed, but it doesn’t feel like it. 

One of the trinkets is a gold-plated lighter from the 1970s. On the base of it, _Mieczysław Gajos_ is engraved in elegant cursive. His mother inherited it from her father, upon his death, and Stiles upon her death. Needless to say, that damn lighter (the only one he can’t bring himself to banish from his possession) has been refilled countless times in the past decade. 

And it’d be so fucking easy to retrieve it right now, cup a hand over the flame, and feel alive. Watch the dancing flicker of fire until he’s functioning. Burn something just to prove that this is reality. That he isn’t alone, that he isn’t so fucking _cold_ and _heartless_ and _wrong_. 

Sitting on the bathroom countertop (now cleaned, ash and fire residue free), Stiles looks down at shaky hands, claws refusing to recede. Despite his even breaths, numbered and perfect, his heartbeat races. Stiles nearly draws blood when his sharp teeth catch on his bottom lip.

He glances over his shoulder and catches his reflection in the mirror, and a golden-eyed, pointy-eared werewolf is staring right back.

It’s a damn effective attention shifter. 

“Holy fuck,” Stiles whispers with a mouthful of sharp teeth, and promptly jumps off the counter, turning around and peering into the mirror to get a closer look. 

Yeah, he’s definitely a werewolf. Is this that… other form Derek was talking about? Damn it, what had he called it again…? 

Stiles quickly returns to his room, turns on a desk lamp, and grabs his phone.

**[ Lydia Deetz ]**

**_U up?_ **

_Shockingly, yes._

**_Facetime?_ **

Lydia’s calling him moments later, and Stiles promptly picks up as he sits down at his desk. The connection buffers for a moment. Then, Lydia’s makeup free, sleepy face takes up the screen. She’s barely lit up by the light of her phone screen and looks as exhausted as Stiles feels. 

Lydia squints at the screen, rubs her eyes, and then squints again. 

“ _Oh my God_ ,” she mutters with a voice rough from sleep. “ _Why is your camera so... glare-y?_ ”

“What?” Stiles quietly says, and then quickly looks at his picture in the corner. He's still visible, but... there's a definite glare around his eyes. Like a camera flash catching itself in a mirror. “Oh. I don't know? Might be the wolf eyes?”

“ _Maybe,_ ” Lydia mumbles.

“Wait, what about everything else though? Like... it's cool, right?” Stiles prods, still keeping his tone hushed for the late hour of their call.

“ _You…_ ”

“Look like a badass?”

“ _...have a widow’s peak?_ ”

“Oh, yeah, that,” Stiles says as he messes with his hair.

“ _I’m going to be honest—_ ”

“Oh no.”

“ _—it’s a let down. I mean, your forehead’s a bit more pronounced? And your eyebrows are fuller? Don’t even get me started on those sad little sideburns._ ”

“Wh—but—” Stiles tries to muster up words to defend himself, but as he considers his appearance in the corner of the screen again, he notices that... Lydia is kind of right.

In the silence, he notices his heartbeat, finally dropping, dropping, dropping. Before his very eyes, he sees his new form fade away, until he looks human once again. With it, the glare in the capture recedes. Lydia is staring at the screen with rapt attention. 

“ _Nice party trick,_ ” she remarks. “ _But ultimately underwhelming._ ”

“Un—underwhelming? What were you expecting?!” Stiles responds, nearly offended.

“ _An actual wolf?_ ”

“Well, what you just saw is as far as I’ve gotten so far. So, maybe I just haven’t unlocked the final stage yet.”

Lydia sighs as she closes her eyes and adjusts her duvet. She sets her phone aside, and Stiles only has a view of darkness in the form of a black screen. “ _Hmm. Maybe. I’ll ask Derek tomorrow._ ”

“Please do, ‘cause I can’t get a straight answer out of him for the life of me,” Stiles says with a groan as he lets his chest plop onto the desk, holding the phone directly in front of his face. It’s a very unflattering angle, but it’s not like Lydia is looking at her phone. “Oh, that reminds me, so like, apparently Derek’s sister was lured out here by a werewolf symbol?”

“ _Mhm._ ”

“He really didn’t give me much to go on, and I haven’t gotten a chance to research it yet. But, it’s a spiral, and, like, it means revenge.” Stiles rubs his eyes as he sits up again. “Derek’s sister was buried under a spiral. And… he told me he’s gonna get his revenge on the Alpha.”

“ _Mm._ ”

“But… I don’t know.” Stiles sighs. “The connection I have with the Alpha… I get freaked out thinking about him dying. It’s like,” Stiles drops his tone even quieter, fully whispering as he continues, “it’s like he’s a part of me, y’know? Or, I’m a part of him. The whole pack thing, Alpha-Beta connection, whatever. It feels important.”

The line is quiet, and Stiles takes it as a sign to continue.

“Like, lemme clarify, because I don’t want you to take this the wrong way: I don’t think killing and the whole _blood will have blood_ thing is right, but I don’t think the Alpha is wrong. It’s like extenuating circumstances are at play. There’s still more to this that we don’t know.”

It’s still silent, confessionally so. His desk lamp feels more like an interrogation lamp; he flicks it off, and is sent into blissful darkness.

“Or I’m just slowly going crazy,” Stiles says as he stands up and returns to his bed. “I mean, I k—” Stiles’ voice catches, and he exhales slowly as he lays down. His gaze is caught on the ceiling as he whispers, “I killed someone.”

Uneasy beats of silence pass.

“It’s like, I thought it was a dream, I thought… I don’t know. That there weren’t any consequences. It wasn’t real.” Stiles pinches his brow at the memory. “And then I remember… that it is. That there’s blood on my hands.”

Lydia still doesn’t respond.

“I think I’m still in shock. I don’t—I don’t think I’ve processed it. I don’t know how to. And, and I keep telling myself that he deserved it, that I _know_ he deserved it, because if I didn’t… I think the guilt would eat me alive.”

 _The Alpha would’ve killed him either way_ , Stiles’ brain reminds him. He shuts that train of thought up before it can even get started. 

More moments pass. Stiles furrows his brow in worry.

“Lydia?”

And that’s when Stiles listens closely and hears the extremely faint sounds of her soft snoring.

“ _Aaand_ you’re asleep. Okay. Just Stiles, talking to himself. Again. Goodnight, I guess.”

Stiles hangs up, tosses his phone on the floor, and pulls the covers over himself. He’s both upset and relieved that Lydia wasn’t awake for his admissions. 

Still staring at the ceiling, Stiles wonders—not for the first time—what’ll happen when he finally finds the Alpha.

Sleep uneasily takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be finished weeks ago, but my sport is in season and my team is traveling every other day for competition. Free time is practically non-existent right now and it’s really hard to get any significant work done on the bus. 
> 
> Regarding eye color: if the person a werewolf kills isn’t _innocent_ , do their eyes still turn blue? It’s supposed to be an innocent life that changes the color from gold to blue (as far as I know), but I’ve read a lot of fics where it’s just… murder is general. And how is innocence defined? Obviously kids like Paige and Kylie (Malia’s sister) are innocent. What about a guy who helped cover up an arson that killed an entire family? He surely can’t be flagged as innocent in whatever arbitrary moral magic system that determines werewolf eye color. Thus, Stiles’ eyes remain gold, Derek sees that, and both parties know that Meyers wasn’t innocent and therefore "deserved" to die. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts on that particular subject! Agree with me? Disagree? Have another idea? I’m eager to hear what you all have to say. But for the purpose of the story, Stiles’ werewolf eyes are still gold.
> 
> As for why Derek's willing to reveal more information about werewolf lore and what not much earlier than in canon... I like to think he trusts Stiles (and Lydia) more? Stiles seems to be, like, very clearly on board with all the werewolf stuff, and isn't antagonistic with Derek (unlike canon Scott). Lydia's really supportive as well, despite dating Allison. Also, he realizes that Stiles is legitimately trying to help after seeing the murder board. Therefore: a slightly less secretive, slightly more chill Derek.
> 
> And princesses... Brave was not out yet in early 2012. It came out in the summer, and so Lydia can’t really compare Allison to the bow-wielding Merida. As for why Allison is Rapunzel: being locked into a certain life? Taking up a plethora of hobbies? A controlling parent/family? It’s kind of all there. And, yeah, Lydia is mainly Aurora because of how Lydia’s been ‘asleep’ for all these years. Allison’s referring to Lydia’s public image, how she’s always projected a certain look, but has kinda abandoned that by coming out, no longer dating Jackson, graduating high school soon, etc. She’s waking up to her true self. It’s also a nod to her latent banshee powers, and how she might finally be waking those powers up, but neither Lydia nor Allison know about that yet. That’s just a nod to the reader. 
> 
> (Stiles is definitely Belle because I love the imagery of Steter as Beauty and the Beast. Don’t ask me about anybody else, though, because I do not know enough about princesses to make any further associations. Maybe Derek has Elsa vibes, being the total ice queen he is? Now I’m picturing Derek listening to Let it Go on an iPod with a completely stoic face. And now you are too. You’re welcome.)


End file.
